University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

SIDNEY  HOWARD  COLLECTION 

Gift  of 

The  Family  of  Sidney  Howard 


9 


■"MI^I^ 


^*«K<|     thwtt^,       UttUf   Y«aA.    #f»f. 


A  HUNDRED  AND  SEVENTY 
CHINESE  POEMS 


A  HUNDRED  AND  SEVENTY 
CHINESE  POEMS 


TRANSLATED   BY 

ARTHUR  WALEY 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED  •  A  •  KNOPF 

MCMXIX 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  Inc. 


SST  UP   AND  KLBCTROTYPBD  BT 

THB  VAIL-BALLOU  CO.,  BINGHAMTOM,   N.    Y. 

rRINTBD  BY   PLIMPTON   PRESS,   NORWOOD,    MASS., 

ON  WARREN'S  INDIA  TINT  OLDE  STYLE   PAPER. 

BOUND  BY  PLIMPTON   PRESS,  NORWOOD,  MASS. 


PRELIMINARY  NOTE 

In  making  this  book  I  have  tried  to  avoid  poems  which 
have  been  translated  before.  A  hundred  and  forty  of 
those  I  have  chosen  have  not  been  translated  by  any 
one  else.  The  remaining  thirty  odd  I  have  included  in 
many  oases  because  the  previous  versions  were  full  of 
mistakes;  in  others,  because  the  works  in  which  they  ap- 
peared are  no  longer  procurable.  Moreover,  they  are 
mostly  in  German,  a  language  with  which  my  readers 
may  not  all  be   acquainted. 

With  some  hesitation  I  have  included  literal  versions 
of  six  poems  (three  of  the  "  Seventeen  Old  Poems," 
"Autumn  Wind,"  "Li  Fu  jen,"  and  "On  the  Death 
of  his  Father")  already  skilfully  rhymed  by  Professor 
Giles  in  "  Chinese  Poetry  in  English  Verse."  They  were 
too  typical  to  omit;  and  a  comparison  of  the  two  render- 
ings may  be  of  interest.  Some  of  these  translations  have 
appeared  in  the  "  Bulletin  of  the  School  of  Oriental 
Studies,"  in  the  "  New  Statesman,"  in  the  "  Little  Review  " 
(Chicago),  and  in  "Poetry"  (Chicago). 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

PAGE 

Intkoduction 

15 

The  Limitations  of  Chinese  Literature 

17 

Technique 

22 

The  Method  of  Translation 

33 

Bibliographical  Notes 

35 

Chapter  One: 

Battle 

39 

The  Man-Wind  and  the  Woman-Wind 

41 

Master  Teng-t'u 

43 

The  Orphan 

45 

The  Sick  Wife 

47 

Cock-Crow  Song 

48 

The  Golden  Palace 

49 

"  Old  Poem  " 

50 

Meeting  in  the  Road 

51 

Fighting  South  of  the  Castle 

52 

The  Eastern  Gate 

53 

Old  and  New 

54 

South  of  the  Great  Sea 

55 

The  Other  Side  of  the  Valley 

56 

Oaths  of  Friendship 

57 

Burial  Songs 

58 

Seventeen  Old  Poems 

PAGE 

59-68 

The  Autumn  Wind 

69 

Li  Fu-jen 

70 

Song  of  Snow-white  Heads 

71 

To  his  Wife 

73 

Li  Ling 

74 

Lament  of  Hsi-chiin 

75 

Ch'in  Chia 

76 

Ch'in  Chia's  Wife's  Reply 

77 

Song 

78 

PTER  Two: 

Satire  on  Paying  Calls  in  August 

83 

On  the  Death  of  his  Father 

84 

The  Campaign  against  Wu 

85 

The  Ruins  of  Lo-yang 

86 

The  Cock-fight 

88 

A  Vision 

89 

The  Curtain  of  the  Wedding  Bed 

90 

Regret 

91 

Taoist  Song 

92 

A  Gentle  Wind 

93 

Woman 

94 

Day  Dreams 

95 

The  Scholar  in  the  Narrow  Street 

96 

The  Desecration  of  the  Han  Tombs 

97 

Bearer's  Song 

99 

The  Valley  Wind 

100 

Chapter  Three: 

Poems  by  T'ao  Ch'ien  103-116 


Chapter  Four:  „.^„ 

PAGE 

Inviting  Guests  119 

Climbing  a  Mountain  120 

Sailing  Homeward  121 

Five  "  Tzu-yeh  "  Songs  122 

The  Little  Lady  of  Ch'ing-hsi  123 

Plucking  the  Rushes  124 
Ballad  of  the  Western  Island  in  the  North  Country    125 

Song  127 

Song  of  the  Men  of  Chin-ling  128 

The  Scholar  Recruit  129 

The  Red  Hills  130 

Dreaming  of  a  Dead  Lady  131 

The  Liberator  132 

Lo-yang  133 

Winter  Night  134 

The  Rejected  Wife  135 

People  hide  their  Love  136 

The  Ferry  137 

The  Waters  of  Lung-t'ou  138 

Flowers  and  Moonlight  on  the  Spring  River  139 

Tchirek  Song  140 

Chapter  Five: 

Business  Men  145 

Tell  me  now  146 

On  Going  to  a  Tavern  147 

Stone  Fish  Lake  148 

Civilization  149 

A  Protest  in  the  Sixth  Year  of  Ch'ien  Fu  150 

On  the  Birth  of  his  Son  151 

The  Pedlar  of  Spells  152 


Boating  in  Autumn 

PAGE 

153 

The  Herd-Boy 

154 

How  I  sailed  on  the  Lake  till  I  came  to 

the  Eastern 

Stream 

155 

A  Seventeenth-century 

Chinese  Poem 

156 

The  Little  Cart 

156 

PART  II 

Introduction  161 

By  Po  Chij-i: 

An  Early  Levee  171 
Being  on  Duty  all  night  in  the  Palace  and  dream- 
ing of  the  Hsien-yu  Temple  172 
Passing  T'ien-men  Street  in  Ch'ang-an  and  seeing 

a  distant  View  of  Chung-nan  Mountain  173 

The  Letter  174 

Rejoicing  at  the  Arrival  of  Ch'en  Hsiung  176 

Golden  Bells  177 

Remembering  Golden  Bells  178 

Illness  179 

The  Dragon  of  the  Black  Pool  180 

The   Grain-tribute  182 

The  People  of  Tao-chou  183 

The  Old  Harp  185 

The  Harper  of  Chao  186 

The  Flower  Market  187 

The  Prisoner  188 

The  Chancellor's  Gravel-drive  192 

The  Man  who  Dreamed  of  Fairies  193 

Magic  195 


PAGE 

The  Two  Red  Towers  197 

The  Charcoal-seller  199 

The  Politician  201 

The  Old  Man  with  the  Broken  Arm  202 
Kept  waiting  in  the  Boat  at  Chiu-k'ou  Ten  Days  by 

an  adverse  Wind  205 
On  Board  Ship:  Reading  Yiian  Chen's  Poems  206 
Arriving  at  Hsiin-yang  207 
Madly  Singing  in  the  Mountains  208 
Releasing  a  migrant  "  Yen  "  (Wild  Goose)  209 
To  a  Portrait  Painter  who  desired  him  to  sit  211 
Separation  212 
Having  climbed  to  the  topmost  Peak  of  the  In- 
cense-burner Mountain  213 
Eating  Bamboo-shoots  214 
The  Red  Cockatoo  215 
After  Lunch  216 
Alarm  at  first  entering  the  Yang-tze  Gorges  217 
On  being  removed  from  Hsiin-yang  and  sent  to 

Chung-chou  219 

Planting  Flowers  on  the  Eastern  Embankment  220 

Children  221 

Pruning  Trees  222 

Being  visited  by  a  Friend  during  Illness  223 
On  the  way  to  Hangchow:  Anchored  on  the  River 

at  Night  224 

Stopping  the  Night  at  Jung-yang  225 

The  Silver  Spoon  226 

The  Hat  given  to  the  Poet  by  Li  Chien  227 

The  Big  Rug  228 

After  getting  Drunk,  becoming  Sober  in  the  Night  229 


PAGE 

Realizing  the  Futility  of  Life  230 

Rising  Late  and  Playing  with  A-ts'ui,  aged  Two  231 
On  a  Box  containing  his  own  Works  232 

On  being  Sixty  233 

Climbing  the  Terrace  of  Kuan-yin  and  looking  at 

the  City  234 

Climbing  the  Ling  Ying  Terrace  and  looking  North  235 
Going  to  the  Mountains  with  a  little  Dancing  Girl, 

aged  Fifteen  236 

Dreaming  of  Yiian  Chen  237 

A  Dream  of  Mountaineering  238 

Ease  239 

On  hearing  someone  sing  a  Poem  by  Yiian  Chen  240 
The  Philosophers  241 

Taoism  and  Buddhism  242 

Last  Poem  243 


PART  I 


INTRODUCTION 


Principal  Chinese  Dynasties 


Han,       206       b.  c. —  A.  D. 

220. 
Wei,  220-264. 
Chin,  265-419. 
[Northern  Wei,  ruled  over 

the     North     of     China, 

386-532.] 
Liang,  502-556. 


Sui,  589-618. 

T'ang,  618-905. 

Sung,  960-1278. 

Yiian     [Mongols],     1260- 

1341. 
Ming,  1368-1640. 
Ch'ing    [Manchus],   1644- 

1912. 


THE  LIMITATIONS  OF  CHINESE  LITERATURE 

Those  who  wish  to  assure  themselves  that  they  will  lose 
nothing  by  ignoring  Chinese  literature,  often  ask  the 
question:  "Have  the  Chinese  a  Homer,  an  Aeschylus,  a 
Shakespeare  or  Tolstoy?  "  The  answer  must  be  that  China 
has  no  epic  and  no  dramatic  literature  of  importance. 
The  novel  exists  and  has  merits,  but  never  became  the  in- 
strument of  great  writers. 

Her  philosophic  literature  knows  no  mean  between  the 
traditionalism  of  Confucius  and  the  nihilism  of  Chuang-tzii. 
In  mind,  as  in  body,  the  Chinese  were  for  the  most  part 
torpid  mainlanders.  Their  thoughts  set  out  on  no  strange 
quest  and  adventures,  just  as  their  ships  discovered  no 
new  continents.  To  most  Europeans  the  momentary  flash 
of  Athenian  questioning  will  seem  worth  more  than  all  the 
centuries  of  Chinese  assent. 

Yet  we  must  recognize  that  for  thousands  of  years  the 
Chinese  maintained  a  level  of  rationality  and  tolerance  that 
the  West  might  well  envy.  They  had  no  Index,  no  Inquisi- 
tion, no  Holy  Wars.  Superstition  has  indeed  played  its 
part  among  them;  but  it  has  never,  as  in  Europe,  been 
perpetually  dominant.  It  follows  from  the  limitations  of 
Chinese  thought  that  the  literature  of  the  country  should 
excel  in  reflection  rather  than  in  speculation.  That  this  is 
particularly  true  of  its  poetry  will  be  gauged  from  the 
present  volume.  In  the  poems  of  Po  Chii-i  no  close  reason- 
ing or  philosophic  subtlety  will  be  discovered;  but  a  power 
[17] 


of  candid  reflection  and  self-analysis  which  has  not  been 
rivalled  in  the  West. 

Turning  from  thought  to  emotion,  the  most  conspicuous 
feature  of  European  poetry  is  its  pre-occupation  with  love. 
This  is  apparent  not  only  in  actual  "  love-poems,"  but  in 
all  poetry  where  the  personality  of  the  writer  is  in  any  way 
obtruded.  The  poet  tends  to  exhibit  himself  in  a  romantic 
light;  in  fact,  to  recommend  himself  as  a  lover. 

The  Chinese  poet  has  a  tendency  different  but  analogous. 
He  recommends  himself  not  as  a  lover,  but  as  a  friend. 
He  poses  as  a  person  of  infinite  leisure  [which  is  what  we 
should  most  like  our  friends  to  possess]  and  free  from 
worldly  ambitions  [which  constitute  the  greatest  bars  to 
friendship].  He  would  have  us  think  of  him  as  a  boon 
companion,  a  great  drinker  of  wine,  who  will  not  disgrace 
a  social  gathering  by  quitting  it  sober. 

To  the  European  poet  the  relation  between  man  and 
woman  is  a  thing  of  supreme  importance  and  mystery.  To 
the  Chinese,  it  is  something  commonplace,  obvious  —  a 
need  of  the  body,  not  a  satisfaction  of  the  emotions.  These 
he  reserves  entirely  for  friendship. 

Accordingly  we  find  that  while  our  poets  tend  to  lay 
stress  on  physical  courage  and  other  qualities  which  normal 
women  admire,  Po  Chii-i  is  not  ashamed  to  write  such  a 
poem  as  "  Alarm  at  entering  the  Gorges."  Our  poets 
imagine  themselves  very  much  as  Art  has  portrayed  them  — 
bare-headed  and  wild-eyed,  with  shirts  unbuttoned  at  the 
neck  as  though  they  feared  that  a  seizure  of  emotion  might 
at  any  minute  suffocate  them.  The  Chinese  poet  intro- 
duces himself  as  a  timid  recluse,  "Reading  the  Book  of 
Changes  at  the  Northern  Window,"  playing  chess  with  a 
Taoist  priest,  or  practising  caligraphy  with  an  occasional 
[18] 


visitor.  If  "  With  a  Portrait  of  the  Author  "  had  been  the 
rule  in  the  Chinese  book-market,  it  is  in  such  occupations 
as  these  that  he  would  be  shown;  a  neat  and  tranquil  figure 
compared  with  our  lurid  frontispieces. 

It  has  been  the  habit  of  Europe  to  idealize  love  at  the 
expense  of  friendship  and  so  to  place  too  heavy  a  burden 
on  the  relation  of  man  and  woman.  The  Chinese  erred  in 
the  opposite  direction,  regarding  their  wives  and  concubines 
simply  as  instruments  of  procreation.  For  sympathy  and 
intellectual  companionship  they  looked  only  to  their 
friends.  But  these  friends  were  bound  by  no  such  tie  as 
held  women  to  their  masters;  sooner  or  later  they  drifted 
away  to  frontier  campaigns,  remote  governorships,  or 
country  retirement.  It  would  not  be  an  exaggeration  to  say 
that  half  the  poems  in  the  Chinese  language  are  poems  of 
parting  or  separation. 

Readers  of  these  translations  may  imagine  that  the  cul- 
ture represented  by  Po  Chii-i  extended  over  the  whole  vast 
confines  of  China.  This  would,  I  think,  be  an  error.  Cul- 
ture is  essentially  a  metropolitan  product.  Chii-i  was  as 
much  depayse  at  a  provincial  town  as  Charles  Lamb  would 
have  been  at  Botany  Bay.  But  the  system  of  Chinese 
bureaucracy  tended  constantly  to  break  up  the  literary 
coteries  which  formed  at  the  capitals,  and  to  drive  the 
members  out  of  the  little  comer  of  Shensi  and  Honan  which 
to  them  was  "  home." 

It  was  chiefly  economic  necessity  which  forced  the  poets 
of  China  into  the  meshes  of  bureaucracy  —  backed  by  the 
Confucian  insistence  on  public  service.  To  such  as  were 
landowners  there  remained  the  alternative  of  agricultural 
life,  arduous  and  isolated. 

The  poet,  then,  usually  passed  through  three  stages  of 
[19] 


existence.  In  the  first  we  find  him  with  his  friends  at  the 
capital,  drinking,  writing,  and  discussing:  burdened  by  his 
office  probably  about  as  much  as  Pepys  was  burdened  by  his 
duties  at  the  Admiralty.  Next,  having  failed  to  curry 
favour  with  the  Court,  he  is  exiled  to  some  provincial  post, 
perhaps  a  thousand  miles  from  anyone  he  cares  to  talk  to. 
Finally,  having  scraped  together  enough  money  to  buy  hus- 
bands for  his  daughters,  he  retires  to  a  small  estate,  collect- 
ing round  him  the  remnants  of  those  with  whom  he  had 
shared  the  "  feasts  and  frolics  of  old  days." 

I  have  spoken  hitherto  only  of  poets.  But  the  poetess 
occupies  a  place  of  considerable  importance  in  the  first  four 
centuries  of  our  era,  though  the  classical  period  [T'ang 
and  Sung]  produced  no  great  woman  writer.  Her  theme 
varies  little;  she  is  almost  always  a  "  rejected  wife,"  cast 
adrift  by  her  lord  or  sent  back  to  her  home.  Probably  her 
father  would  be  unable  to  buy  her  another  husband  and 
there  was  no  place  for  unmarried  women  in  the  Chinese 
social  system.  The  moment,  then,  which  produced  such 
poems  was  one  of  supreme  tragedy  in  a  woman's  life. 

Love-poetry  addressed  by  a  man  to  a  woman  ceases  after 
the  Han  dynasty;  but  a  conventional  type  of  love-poem,  in 
which  the  poet  [of  either  sex]  speaks  in  the  person  of  a 
deserted  wife  or  concubine,  continues  to  be  popular.  The 
theme  appears  to  be  almost  an  obsession  with  the  T'ang 
and  Sung  poets.  In  a  vague  way,  such  poems  were  felt  to 
be  allegorical.  Just  as  in  the  Confucian  interpretation  of 
the  love-poems  in  the  Odes  [see  below]  the  woman  typifies 
the  Minister,  and  the  lover  the  Prince,  so  in  those  classical 
poems  the  poet  in  a  veiled  way  laments  the  thwarting  of 
his  own  public  ambitions.  Such  tortuous  expression  of 
emotion  did  not  lead  to  good  poetry. 
[20] 


The  "  figures  of  speech,"  devices  such  as  metaphor, 
simile,  and  play  on  words,  are  used  by  the  Chinese  with 
much  more  restraint  than  by  us.  "  Metaphorical  epithets  " 
are  occasionally  to  be  met  with;  waves,  for  example,  might 
perhaps  be  called  "  angry."  But  in  general  the  adjective 
does  not  bear  the  heavy  burden  which  our  poets  have  laid 
upon  it.  The  Chinese  would  call  the  sky  "  blue,"  "  gray," 
or  "cloudy,"  according  to  circumstances;  but  never  "tri- 
umphant "  or  "  terror-scourged." 

The  long  Homeric  simile,  introduced  for  its  own  sake  or 
to  vary  the  monotony  of  narrative,  is  unknown  to  Chinese 
poetry.  Shorter  similes  are  sometimes  found,  as  when  the 
half-Chinese  poet  Altun  compares  the  sky  over  the  Mon- 
golian steppe  with  the  "  walls  of  a  tent  " ;  but  nothing  could 
be  found  analogous  to  Mr.  T.  S.  Eliot's  comparison  of  the 
sky  to  a  "  patient  etherized  on  a  table."  Except  in  popular 
poetry,  puns  are  rare;  but  there  are  several  characters 
which,  owing  to  the  wideness  of  their  import,  are  used  in 
a  way  almost  equivalent  to  play  on  words. 

Classical  allusion,  always  the  vice  of  Chinese  poetry, 
finally  destroyed  it  altogether.  In  the  later  periods  [from 
the  fourteenth  century  onwards]  the  use  of  elegant  syno- 
nyms also  prevailed.  I  have  before  me  a  "  gradus  "  of  the 
kind  which  the  later  poet  used  as  an  aid  to  composition. 
The  moon  should  be  called  the  "Silver  Dish,"  "Frozen 
Wheel,"  or  "  Golden  Ring."  Allusions  may  in  this  con- 
nection be  made  to  Yii  Liang,  who  rode  to  heaven  on  the 
crescent  moon;  to  the  hermit  T'ang,  who  controlled  the 
genius  of  the  New  Moon,  and  kept  him  in  his  house  as  a 
candle  —  or  to  any  other  of  some  thirty  stories  which  are 
given.  The  sun  may  be  called  "  The  Lantern-Dragon,"  the 
"Crow  in  Flight,"  the  "White  Colt,"  etc. 

Such  were  the  artificialities  of  later  Chinese  poetry. 
[21] 


TECHNIQUE 

Certain  elements  are  found,  but  in  varying  degree,  in  all 
human  speech.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  of  a  language  in 
which  rhyme,  stress-accent,  and  tone-accent  would  not  to 
some  extent  occur.  In  all  languages  some  vowel-sounds 
are  shorter  than  others  and,  in  certain  cases,  two  con- 
secutive words  begin  with  the  same  sound.  Other  such 
characteristics  could  be  enumerated,  but  for  the  purposes 
of  poetry  it  is  these  elements  which  man  has  principally 
exploited. 

English  poetry  has  used  chiefly  rhyme,  stress,  and  allitera- 
tion. It  is  doubtful  if  tone  has  ever  played  a  part;  a  con- 
scious use  has  sporadically  been  made  of  quantity.  Poetry 
naturally  utilizes  the  most  marked  and  definite  character- 
istics of  the  language  in  which  it  is  written.  Such  char- 
acteristics are  used  consciously  by  the  poet;  but  less 
important  elements  also  play  their  part,  often  only  in  a 
negative  way.  Thus  the  Japanese  actually  avoid  rhyme; 
the  Greeks  did  not  exploit  it,  but  seem  to  have  tolerated  it 
when  it  occurred  accidentally. 

The  expedients  consciously  used  by  the  Chinese  before 
the  sixth  century  were  rhyme  and  length  of  line.  A  third 
element,  inherent  in  the  language,  was  not  exploited  before 
that  date,  but  must  always  have  been  a  factor  in  instinctive 
considerations  of  euphony.     This  element  was  "  tone." 

Chinese  prosody  distinguishes  between  two  tones,  a 
"  flat  "  and  a  "  deflected."  In  the  first  the  syllable  is  enun- 
ciated in  a  level  manner:  the  voice  neither  rises  nor  sinks. 
In  the  second,  it  [1]  rises,  [2]  sinks,  [3]  is  abruptly  ar- 
[22] 


rested.  These  varieties  make  up  the  Four  Tones  of  Classi- 
cal Chinese.^ 

The  "  deflected  "  tones  are  distinctly  more  emphatic,  and 
so  have  a  faint  analogy  to  our  stressed  syllables.  They  are 
also,  in  an  even  more  remote  way,  analogous  to  the  long 
vowels  of  Latin  prosody.  A  line  ending  with  a  "  level  "  has 
consequently  to  some  extent  the  effect  of  a  "  feminine  end- 
ing." Certain  causes,  which  I  need  not  specify  here,  led  to 
an  increasing  importance  of  "  tone  "  in  the  Chinese  language 
from  the  fifth  century  onwards.  It  was  natural  that  this 
change  should  be  reflected  in  Chinese  prosody.  A  certain 
Shen  Yo  [a.  d.  441-513]  first  propounded  the  laws  of  tone- 
succession  in  poetry.  From  that  time  till  the  eighth  cen- 
tury the  Lii-shih  or  "  strictly  regulated  poem  "  gradually 
evolved.  But  poets  continued  [and  continue  till  to-day], 
side  by  side  with  their  lii-shih,  to  write  in  the  old  metre 
which  disregards  tone,  calling  such  poems  Ku  shih,  "  old 
poems."  Previous  European  statements  about  Chinese 
prosody  should  be  accepted  with  great  caution.  Writers 
have  attempted  to  define  the  lii-shih  with  far  too  great 
precision. 

The  Chinese  themselves  are  apt  to  forget  that  T'ang 
poets  seldom  obeyed  the  laws  designed  in  later  school-books 
as  essential  to  classical  poetry;  or,  if  they  notice  that  a 
verse  by  Li  Po  does  not  conform,  they  stigmatize  it  as 
"  irregular  and  not  to  be  imitated." 

The  reader  will  infer  that  the  distinction  between  "  old 
poems  "  and  irregular  lii-shih  is  often  arbitrary.  This  is 
certainly  the  case;  I  have  found  the  same  poem  classified 

^  Not  to  be  confused  with  the  Four  Tones  of  the  Mandarin  dialect, 
in  which  the  old  names  are  used  to  describe  quite  different  enuncia- 
tions. 
[23] 


differently  in  different  native  books.  But  it  is  possible  to 
enumerate  certain  characteristics  which  distinguish  the  two 
kinds  of  verse.  I  will  attempt  to  do  so;  but  not  till  I  have 
discussed  rhyme,  the  other  main  element  in  Chinese  prosody. 
It  would  be  equally  difi&cult  to  define  accurately  the  differ- 
ence between  the  couplets  of  Pope  and  those  of  William 
Morris.  But  it  would  not  be  impossible,  by  pointing  out 
certain  qualities  of  each,  to  enable  a  reader  to  distinguish 
between  the  two  styles. 

Rhyme. —  Most  Chinese  syllables  ended  with  a  vowel  or 
nasal  sound.  The  Chinese  rhyme  was  in  reality  a  vowel 
assonance.  Words  in  different  consonants  rhymed  so  long 
as  the  vowel-sound  was  exactly  the  same.  Thus  ywet, 
"  moon,"  rhymed  with  sek,  "  beauty."  During  the  classical 
period  these  consonant  endings  were  gradually  weakening, 
and  to-day,  except  in  the  south,  they  are  wholly  lost.  It  is 
possible  that  from  very  early  times  final  consonants  were 
lightly  pronounced. 

The  rhymes  used  in  lii-shih  were  standardized  in  the 
eighth  century,  and  some  of  them  were  no  longer  rhymes 
to  the  ear  in  the  Mandarin  dialect.  To  be  counted  as  a 
rhyme,  two  words  must  have  exactly  the  same  vowel- 
sound.  Some  of  the  distinctions  then  made  are  no  longer 
audible  to-day;  the  sub-divisions  therefore  seem  arbitrary. 
Absolute  homophony  is  also  counted  as  rhyme,  as  in 
French.  It  is  as  though  we  should  make  m/ide  rhyme  with 
maid, 

I  will  now  attempt  to  distinguish  between  Ku-shih  [old 
style]  and  Lii-shih  [new  style]. 

Ku-shih  [Old  Style]. 

[a]  According  to  the  investigations  of  Chu  Hua,  an  eight- 
[24] 


eenth  century  critic,  only  thirty-four  rhymes  were  used. 
They  were,  indeed,  assonances  of  the  roughest  kind. 

[b]  "  Deflected  "  words  are  used  for  rhyming  as  freely  as 
"  flat  "  words. 

[c]  Tone-arrangement.  The  tones  were  disregarded. 
[Lines  can  be  found  in  pre-T'ang  poems  in  which  five  de- 
flected tones  occur  in  succession,  an  arrangement  which 
would  have  been  painful  to  the  ear  of  a  T'ang  writer  and 
would  probably  have  been  avoided  by  classical  poets  even 
when  using  the  old  style.] 

Lii-shih  [New  Style], 

[a]  The  rhymes  used  are  the  "  106  "  of  modern  diction- 
aries [not  those  of  the  Odes,  as  Giles  states].  Rhymes  in 
the  flat  tone  are  preferred.  In  a  quatrain  the  lines  which  do 
not  rhyme  must  end  on  the  opposite  tone  to  that  of  the 
rhyme.  This  law  is  absolute  in  Lii-shih  and  a  tendency  in 
this  direction  is  found  even  in  Ku-shih. 

[6]  There  is  a  tendency  to  antithetical  arrangement  of 
tones  in  the  two  lines  of  a  couplet,  especially  in  the  last 
part  of  the  lines. 

[c]  A  tendency  for  the  tones  to  go  in  pairs,  e,  g.  [A  = 
flat,  B  =  deflected] :  AA  BBA  or  ABB  AA,  rather  than  in 
threes.  Three  like  tones  only  come  together  when  divided 
by  a  "  cesura,"  e,  g.,  the  line  BB/AAA  would  be  avoided, 
but  not  the  line  BBAA/ABB. 

[d]  Verbal  parallelism  in  the  couplet,  e,  g,: 

After  long  illness  one  first  realizes  that  seeking  medicines  is 

a  mistake; 
In  one^s  decaying  years  one  begins  to  repent  that  one's  study 

of  books  was  deferred, 
[25] 


This  device,  used  with  some  discretion  in  T'ang,  becomes 
an  irritating  trick  in  the  hands  of  the  Sung  poets. 


THE  RISE  AND  PROGRESS  OF 
CHINESE  POETRY 

The  Odes. —  From  the  songs  current  in  his  day  Confucius 
[551-479  B.  c]  chose  about  three  hundred  which  lie  re- 
garded as  suitable  texts  for  his  ethical  and  social  teaching. 
Many  of  them  are  eulogies  of  good  rulers  or  criticisms  of 
bad  ones.  Out  of  the  three  hundred  and  five  still  extant 
only  about  thirty  are  likely  to  interest  the  modern  reader. 
Of  these  half  deal  with  war  and  half  with  love.  Many 
translations  exist,  the  best  being  those  of  Legge  in  English 
and  of  Couvreur  in  French.  There  is  still  room  for  an 
English  translation  displaying  more  sensitively  to  word- 
rhythm  than  that  of  Legge.  It  should  not,  I  think,  include 
more  than  fifty  poems.  But  the  Odes  are  essentially  lyric 
poetry,  and  their  beauty  lies  in  effects  which  cannot  be 
reproduced  in  English.  For  that  reason  I  have  excluded 
them  from  this  book;  nor  shall  I  discuss  them  further  here, 
for  full  information  will  be  found  in  the  works  of  Legge 
or  Couvreur. 

Elegies  of  the  land  of  CKu. —  We  come  next  to  Ch'ii 
Yiian  [third  century  B.  c]  whose  famous  poem  "Li  Sao," 
or  "  Falling  into  Trouble,"  has  also  been  translated  by 
Legge.  It  deals,  under  a  love-allegory,  with  the  relation 
between  the  writer  and  his  king.  In  this  poem,  sex  and 
politics  are  curiously  interwoven,  as  we  need  not  doubt  they 
were  in  Chii  Yiian's  own  mind.  He  affords  a  striking  ex- 
ample of  the  way  in  which  abnormal  mentality  imposes 
[26] 


itself.  We  find  his  followers  unsuccessfully  attempting  to 
use  the  same  imagery  and  rhapsodical  verbiage,  not  realiz- 
ing that  these  were,  as  De  Goncourt  would  say,  the  prod- 
uct of  their  master's  propre  nevrosite. 

"The  Battle,"  his  one  thoroughly  intelligible  poem,  has 
hitherto  been  only  very  imperfectly  translated.  A  literal 
version  will  be  found  on  page  39. 

His  nephew  Sung  Yii  was  no  servile  imitator.  In  addi- 
tion to  "  elegies  "  in  the  style  of  the  Li  Sao,  he  was  the 
author  of  many  "  Fu "  or  descriptive  prose-poems,  un- 
rhymed  but  more  or  less  metrical. 

The  Han  Dynasty, —  Most  of  the  Han  poems  in  this  book 
were  intended  to  be  sung.  Many  of  them  are  from  the 
official  song-book  of  the  dynasty  and  are  known  as  Yo  Fu 
or  Music  Bureau  poems,  as  distinct  from  shih,  which  were 
recited.  Ch'in  Chia's  poem  and  his  wife's  reply  [pages  76 
and  77]  are  both  shih;  but  all  the  rest  might,  I  think,  be 
counted  as  songs. 

The  Han  dynasty  is  rich  in  Fu  [descriptions],  but  none 
of  them  could  be  adequately  translated.  They  are  written 
in  an  elaborate  and  florid  style  which  recalls  Apuleius  or 
Lyly. 

The  Chin  Dynasty, 

[1]  Popular  Songs  [Songs  of  Wu].  The  popular  songs 
referred  to  the  Wu  [Soochow]  district  and  attributed  to  the 
fourth  century  may  many  of  them  have  been  current  at  a 
much  earlier  date.  They  are  slight  in  content  and  deal  with 
only  one  topic.  They  may,  in  fact,  be  called  "  Love- 
epigrams."  They  find  a  close  parallel  in  the  coplas  of 
Spain,  c/. : 
[27] 


El  candil  se  esta  apagando. 
La  alcuza  no  dene  aceite  — 
No  te  digo  que  te  vayas,  .  .  . 
No  te  digo  que  te  quedes. 

The  brazier  is  going  out. 
The  lamp  has  no  more  oil  — 
/  do  not  tell  you  to  go,  .  .  . 
/  do  not  tell  you  to  stay, 

A  Han  song,  which  I  will  translate  quite  literally,  seems 
to  be  the  forerunner  of  the  Wu  songs. 

On  two  sides  of  river,  wedding  made: 
Time  comes;  no  boat. 
Lusting  heart  loses  hope 
Not  seeing  what-it-desires. 

[2]  The  Taoists, —  Confucius  inculcated  the  duty  of 
public  service.  Those  to  whom  this  duty  was  repulsive 
found  support  in  Taoism,  a  system  which  denied  this  obliga- 
tion. The  third  and  fourth  centuries  A.  D.  witnessed  a  great 
reaction  against  state  service.  It  occurred  to  the  intellec- 
tuals of  China  that  they  would  be  happier  growing  vege- 
tables in  their  gardens  than  place-hunting  at  Nanking. 
They  embraced  the  theory  that  "by  bringing  himself  into 
harmony  with  Nature  "  man  can  escape  every  evil.  Thus 
Tao  [Nature's  Way]  corresponds  to  the  Nirvana  of 
Buddhism,  and  the  God  of  Christian  mysticism. 

They  reduced  to  the  simplest  standard  their  houses,  ap- 
parel, and  food;  and  discarded  the  load  of  book-learning 
which  Confucianism  imposed  on  its  adherents. 

The  greatest  of  these  recluses  was  T'ao  Ch'ien  [a.  d. 
[28] 


365-427],  twelve  of  whose  poems  will  be  found  on  page 
103,  seq.  Something  of  his  philosophy  may  be  gathered 
from  the  poem  "  Substance,  Shadow,  and  Spirit "  [page 
106],  his  own  views  being  voiced  by  the  last  speaker.  He 
was  not  an  original  thinker,  but  a  great  poet  who  reflects 
in  an  interesting  way  the  outlook  of  his  time. 

Liang  and  Minor  Dynasties. —  This  period  is  known  as 
that  of  the  "Northern  and  Southern  Courts."  The  north 
of  China  was  in  the  hands  of  the  Tungusie  Tartars,  who 
founded  the  Northern  Wei  dynasty  —  a  name  particularly 
familiar,  since  it  is  the  habit  of  European  collectors  to 
attribute  to  this  dynasty  any  sculpture  which  they  believe 
to  be  earlier  than  T'ang.  Little  poetry  was  produced  in  the 
conquered  provinces;  the  Tartar  emperors,  though  they 
patronized  Buddhist  art,  were  incapable  of  promoting  litera- 
ture. But  at  Nanking  a  series  of  emperors  ruled,  most  of 
whom  distinguished  themselves  either  in  painting  or  poetry. 
The  Chinese  have  always  [and  rightly]  despised  the  litera- 
ture of  this  period,  which  is  "  all  flowers  and  moonlight." 
A  few  individual  writers,  such  as  Pao  Chao,  stand  out  as 
exceptions.  The  Emperor  Yiian-ti  —  who  hacked  his  way  to 
the  throne  by  murdering  all  other  claimants,  including  his 
own  brother  —  is  typical  of  the  period  both  as  a  man  and  as 
a  poet.  A  specimen  of  his  sentimental  poetry  will  be  found 
on  page  135.  When  at  last  forced  to  abdicate,  he  heaped 
together  200,000  books  and  pictures;  and,  setting  fire  to 
them,  exclaimed:  "The  culture  of  the  Liang  dynasty 
perishes  with  me." 

T'ang. —  I  have  already  described  the  technical  develop- 
ments of  poetry  during  this  dynasty.  Form  was  at  this 
[29] 


time  valued  far  above  content.  "  Poetry,"  says  a  critic, 
"  should  draw  its  materials  from  the  Han  and  Wei 
dynasties."  With  the  exception  of  a  few  reformers,  writers 
contented  themselves  with  clothing  old  themes  in  new  forms. 
The  extent  to  which  this  is  true  can  of  course  only  be 
realized  by  one  thoroughly  familiar  with  the  earlier  poetry. 
In  the  main,  T'ang  confines  itself  to  a  narrow  range  of 
stock  subjects.  The  mise-en-scene  is  borrowed  from  earlier 
times.  If  a  battle-poem  be  written,  it  deals  with  the  cam- 
paigns of  the  Han  dynasty,  not  with  contemporary  events. 
The  "  deserted  concubines "  of  conventional  love-poetry 
are  those  of  the  Han  Court.  Innumerable  poems  record 
"  Reflections  on  Visiting  a  Ruin,"  or  on  "  The  Site  of  an 
Old  City,"  etc.  The  details  are  ingeniously  varied,  but  the 
sentiments  are  in  each  case  identical.  Another  feature  is 
the  excessive  use  of  historical  allusions.  This  is  usually 
not  apparent  in  rhymed  translations,  which  evade  such 
references  by  the  substitution  of  generalities.  Poetry  be- 
came the  medium  not  for  the  expression  of  a  poet's  emotions, 
but  for  the  display  of  his  classical  attainments.  The  great 
Li  Po  is  no  exception  to  this  rule.  Often  where  his  trans- 
lators would  make  us  suppose  he  is  expressing  a  fancy  of 
his  own,  he  is  in  reality  skilfully  utilizing  some  poem  by 
T'ao  Ch'ien  or  Hsieh  Ti'ao.  It  is  for  his  versification  that 
he  is  admired,  and  with  justice.  He  represents  a  reaction 
against  the  formal  prosody  of  his  immediate  predecessors. 
It  was  in  the  irregular  song-metres  of  his  ku-shih  that  he 
excelled.  In  such  poems  as  the  "  Ssech'uan  Road,"  with 
its  wild  profusion  of  long  and  short  lines,  its  cataract  of 
exotic  verbiage,  he  aimed  at  something  nearer  akin  to 
music  than  to  poetry.  Tu  Fu,  his  contemporary,  occasion- 
ally abandoned  the  cult  of  "  abstract  form."  Both  poets 
[30] 


lived  through  the  most  tragic  period  of  Chinese  history.  In 
755  the  Emperor's  Turkic  favourite,  An  Lu-shan,  revolted 
against  his  master.  A  civil  war  followed,  in  which  China 
lost  thirty  million  men.  The  dynasty  was  permanently  en- 
feebled and  the  Empire  greatly  curtailed  by  foreign  incur- 
sions. So  ended  the  "  Golden  Age  "  of  Ming  Huang.  Tu 
Fu,  stirred  by  the  horror  of  massacres  and  conscriptions, 
wrote  a  series  of  poems  in  the  old  style,  which  Po  Chii-i 
singles  out  for  praise.  One  of  them,  "  The  Press-gang,"  is 
familiar  in  Giles's  translations.  Li  Po,  meanwhile,  was 
writing  complimentary  poems  on  the  Emperor's  "  Tour  in 
the  West " —  a  journey  which  was  in  reality  a  precipitate 
flight  from  his  enemies. 

Sung, —  In  regard  to  content  the  Sung  poets  show  even 
less  originality  than  their  predecessors.  Their  whole  energy 
was  devoted  towards  inventing  formal  restrictions.  The 
"  tz'ii "  developed,  a  species  of  song  in  lines  of  irregular 
length,  written  in  strophes,  each  of  which  must  conform  to 
a  strict  pattern  of  tones  and  rhymes.  The  content  of  the 
"  tz'ii "  is  generally  wholly  conventiosal.  Very  few  have 
been  translated;  and  it  is  obvious  that  they  are  unsuitable 
for  translation,  since  their  whole  merit  lies  in  metrical  dex- 
terity. Examples  by  the  poetess  Li  I-an  will  be  found  in 
the  second  edition  of  Judith  Gautier's  "  Livre  de  Jade." 
The  poetry  of  Su  Tung-p'o,  the  foremost  writer  of  the 
period,  is  in  its  matter  almost  wholly  a  patchwork  of  earlier 
poems.  It  is  for  the  musical  qualities  of  his  verse  that  he 
is  valued  by  his  countrymen.  He  hardly  wrote  a  poem 
which  does  not  contain  a  phrase  [sometimes  a  whole  line] 
borrowed  from  Po  Chii-i,  for  whom  in  his  critical  writings 
he  expresses  boundless  admiration. 
[31] 


A  word  must  be  said  of  the  Fu  [descriptive  prose-poems] 
of  this  time.  They  resemble  the  vers  litres  of  modern 
France,  using  rhyme  occasionally  [like  Georges  Duhamel] 
as  a  means  of  "  sonner,  rouler,  quand  il  faut  f aire  donner 
les  cuivres  et  la  batterie."  Of  this  nature  is  the  magnificent 
"Autumn  Dirge"  [Giles,  "Chinese  Lit.,"  p.  215]  by 
Ou-yang  Hsiu,  whose  lyric  poetry  is  of  small  interest. 
The  subsequent  periods  need  not  much  concern  us.  In  the 
eighteenth  century  the  garrulous  Yiian  Mei  wrote  his 
"  Anecdotes  of  Poetry -making  " —  a  book  which,  while  one 
of  the  most  charming  in  the  language,  probably  contains 
more  bad  poetry  [chiefly  that  of  his  friends]  than  any  in 
the  world.  His  own  poems  are  modelled  on  Po  Chii-i  and 
Su  Tung-p'o. 

This  introduction  is  intended  for  the  general  reader.  I 
have  therefore  stated  my  views  simply  and  categorically, 
and  without  entering  into  controversies  which  are  of  interest 
only  to  a  few  specialists. 

As  an  account  of  the  development  of  Chinese  poetry  these 
notes  are  necessarily  incomplete,  but  it  is  hoped  that  they 
answer  some  of  those  question  which  a  reader  would  be 
most  likely  to  ask. 


[32] 


THE  METHOD  OF  TRANSLATION 

It  is  commonly  asserted  that  poetry,  when  literally  trans- 
lated, ceases  to  be  poetry.  This  is  often  true,  and  I  have 
for  that  reason  not  attempted  to  translate  many  poems 
which  in  the  original  have  pleased  me  quite  as  much  as 
those  I  have  selected.  But  I  present  the  ones  I  have  chosen 
in  the  belief  that  they  still  retain  the  essential  character- 
istics of  poetry. 

I  have  aimed  at  literal  translation,  not  paraphrase.  It 
may  be  perfectly  legitimate  for  a  poet  to  borrow  foreign 
themes  or  material,  but  this  should  not  be  called  translation. 

Above  all,  considering  imagery  to  be  the  soul  of  poetry, 
I  have  avoided  either  adding  images  of  my  own  or  sup- 
pressing those  of  the  original. 

Any  literal  translation  of  Chinese  poetry  is  bound  to  be 
to  some  extent  rhythmical,  for  the  rhythm  of  the  original 
obtrudes  itself.  Translating  literally,  without  thinking 
about  the  metre  of  the  version,  one  finds  that  about  two 
lines  out  of  three  have  a  very  definite  swing  similar  to  that 
of  the  Chinese  lines.  The  remaining  lines  are  just  too 
short  or  too  long,  a  circumstance  very  irritating  to  the 
reader,  whose  ear  expects  the  rhythm  to  continue.  I  have 
therefore  tried  to  produce  regular  rhythmic  effects  similar 
to  those  of  the  original.  Each  character  in  the  Chinese 
is  represented  by  a  stress  in  the  English;  but  between  the 
stresses  unstressed  syllables  are  of  course  interposed.  In  a 
few  instances  where  the  English  insisted  on  being  shorter 
[33] 


than  the  Chinese,  I  have  preferred  to  vary  the  metre  of  my 
version,  rather  than  pad  out  the  line  with  unnecessary 
verbiage. 

I  have  not  used  rhyme  because  it  is  impossible  to  produce 
in  English  rhyme-effects  at  all  similar  to  those  of  the 
original,  where  the  same  rhyme  sometimes  runs  through  a 
whole  poem.  Also,  because  the  restrictions  of  rhyme  neces- 
sarily injure  either  the  vigour  of  one's  language  or  the 
literalness  of  one's  version.  I  do  not,  at  any  rate,  know 
of  any  example  to  the  contrary.  What  is  generally  known 
as  "  blank  verse "  is  the  worst  medium  for  translating 
Chinese  poetry,  because  the  essence  of  blank  verse  is  that  it 
varies  the  position  of  its  pauses,  whereas  in  Chinese  the  stop 
always  comes  at  the  end  of  the  couplet. 


[34] 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

1.  H.  A.  Giles,  "  Chinese  Poetry  in  English  Verse."  1896.  212 
pp.     Combines  rhyme  and  literalness  with  wonderful  dexterity. 

2.  Hervey  St.  Denys,  "  Poesies  des  Thang."  1862.  301  pp.  The 
choice  of  poems  would  have  been  very  different  if  the  author  had 
selected  from  the  whole  range  of  T'ang  poetry,  instead  of  contenting 
himself,  except  in  the  case  of  Li  Po  and  Tu  Fu,  with  making  ex- 
tracts from  two  late  anthologies.  This  book,  the  work  of  a  great 
scholar,  is  reliable  —  except  in  its  information  about  Chinese 
prosody. 

3.  Judith  Gautier,  "  Le  Livre  de  Jade."  1867  and  1908.  It  has 
been  difficult  to  compare  these  renderings  with  the  original,  for 
proper  names  are  throughout  distorted  or  interchanged.  For  ex- 
ample, part  of  a  poem  by  Po  Chii-i  about  Yang  T'ai-chen  is  here 
given  as  a  complete  poem  and  ascribed  to  "  Yan-Ta-Tchen "  as 
author.  The  poet  Han  Yii  figures  as  Heu-Yu;  T'ao  Han  as  Sao 
Nan,  etc.  Such  mistakes  are  evidently  due  to  faulty  decipherment 
of  someone  else's  writing.  Nevertheless,  the  book  is  far  more  read- 
able than  that  of  St.  Denys,  and  shows  a  wider  acquaintance  with 
Chinese  poetry  on  the  part  of  whoever  chose  the  poems.  Most 
of  the  credit  for  this  selection  must  certainly  be  given  to  Ting 
Tun-ling,  the  literatus  whom  Theophile  Gautier  befriended.  But 
the  credit  for  the  beauty  of  these  often  erroneous  renderings  must 
go    to    Mademoiselle    Gautier   herself. 

4.  Anna  von  Bernhardi,  in  "  Mitteil  d.  Seminar  f.  Orient. 
Sprachen,"  1912,  1915,  and  1916.  Two  articles  of  T'ao  Ch'ien  and 
one  on  Li  Po.    All  valuable,  though  not  free  from  mistakes. 

5.  Zottoli,  "  Cursus  Litteraturae  Sinicae."  1886.  Chinese  text 
with  Latin  translation.  Vol.  V  deals  with  poetry.  None  of  the 
poems  is  earlier  than  T'ang.  The  Latin  is  seldom  intelligible  with- 
out reference  to  the  Chinese.    Translators  have  obviously  used  Zot- 

[35] 


toll  as  a  text.    Out  of  eighteen  Sung  poems  in  Giles's  book,  sixteen 
will  be  found  in  Zottoli. 

6.  A.  Pfizmaier,  two  articles  [1886  and  1887]  on  Po  Chii-i  in 
"Denkschr.  d.  Kais.  Ak.  in  Wien."  So  full  of  mistakes  as  to  be  of 
very  little  value,  except  in  so  far  as  they  served  to  call  the  attention 
of  the  European  reader  to  this  poet. 

7.  L.  Woitsch,  "  Aus  den  Gedichten  Po  Chu-i's."  1908.  76  pp. 
A  prose  rendering  with  Chinese  text  of  about  forty  poems,  not  very 
well  selected.  The  translations,  though  inaccurate,  are  a  great  ad- 
vance on  Pfizmaier. 

8.  E.  von  Zachs,  "  Lexicographische  Beitrage."  Vols,  ii  and  iv. 
Re-translation  of  two  poems  previously  mistranslated  by  Pfizmaier. 

9.  S.  Imbault-Huart,  "La  Poesie  Qiinoise  du  14  au  19  siecle." 
1886.    93  pp. 

10.  S.  Imbault-Huart,  "  Un  Poete  Chinois  du  18  Siecle."  (Yuan 
Mei.)  Joum.  of  China  Branch,  Royal  As.  Sec,  N.S.,  vol.  xix,  part 
2,  42  pp. 

11.  S.  Imbault-Huart,  "Poesies  Modemes."    1892.    46  pp. 

12.  A.  Forke,  "  Bluthen  Chinesischer  Dichtung."  1899.  Rhymed 
versions  of  Li  Po  and  pre-T'ang  poems. 

A  fuller  bibliography  will  be  found  in  Cordier's  "Bibliotheca 
Sinica." 


[36] 


CHAPTER  ONE 


BATTLE 

By  Ch'ii  Yiian  [332-295  B.  c],  author  of  the  famous 
poem  "  Li  Sao"  or  "  Falling  into  Trouble"  Finding  that 
he  could  not  influence  the  conduct  of  his  prince,  he  drowned 
himself  in  the  river  Mi-lo.  The  modern  Dragon  Boat 
Festival  is  supposed  to  be  in  his  honour, 

"  We  grasp  our  battle-spears :  we  don  our  breast-plates  of 
hide. 

The  axles  of  our  chariots  touch:  our  short  swords  meet. 

Standards  obscure  the  sun:  the  foe  roll  up  like  clouds. 

Arrows  fall  thick:  the  warriors  press  forward. 

They  menace  our  ranks:  they  break  our  line. 

The  left-hand  trace-horse  is  dead:  the  one  on  the  right  is 
smitten. 

The  fallen  horses  block  our  wheels:  they  impede  the  yoke- 
horses!  " 

They  grasp  their  jade  drum-sticks:  they  beat  the  sounding 

drums. 
Heaven  decrees  their  fall:  the  dread  Powers  are  angry. 

The  warriors  are  all  dead:  they  lie  on  the  moor-field. 
They  issued  but  shall  not  enter:  they  went  but  shall  not 

return. 
The  plains  are  flat  and  wide;  the  way  home  is  long. 
Their  swords  lie  beside  them:  their  black  bows,  in  their 

hand. 
[39] 


Though  their  limbs  were  torn,  their  hearts  could  not  be 

repressed. 
They  were  more  than  brave:  they  were  inspired  with  the 

spirit  of  "Wu."^ 
Steadfast  to  the  end,  they  could  not  be  daunted. 
Their   bodies   were   stricken,   but   their   souls   have   taken 

Immortality  — 
Captains  among  the  ghosts,  heroes  among  the  dead. 

i/.e.,  military  genius. 


[40] 


THE  MAN-WIND  AND  THE  WOMAN-WIND 

A  "  fu,"  or  prose-poem,  by  Sung  Yii  [fourth  century  B. 
c],  nephew  of  Ch'ii  Yuan, 

HsiANG,  king  of  Ch'u,  was  feasting  in  the  Orchid-tower 
Palace,  with  Sung  Yii  and  Ching  Ch'ai  to  wait  upon  him. 
A  gust  of  wind  blew  in  and  the  king  bared  his  breast  to 
meet  it,  saying :  "  How  pleasant  a  thing  is  this  wind  which 
I  share  with  the  conmion  people."  Sung  Yii  answered: 
"  This  is  the  Great  King's  wind.  The  common  people 
cannot  share  it."  The  king  said:  "Wind  is  a  spirit  of 
Heaven  and  Earth.  It  comes  wide  spread  and  does  not 
choose  between  noble  and  base  or  between  high  and  low. 
How  can  you  say  *  This  is  the  king's  wind'?  "  Sung  an- 
swered: "  I  have  heard  it  taught  that  in  the  crooked  lemon- 
tree  birds  make  their  nests  and  to  empty  spaces  winds  fly. 
But  the  wind-spirit  that  comes  to  different  things  is  not  the 
same."  The  king  said:  "Where  is  the  wind  born?  "  and 
Sung  answered :  "  The  wind  is  born  in  the  ground.  It 
rises  in  the  extremities  of  the  green  p'ing-flower.  It  pours 
into  the  river-valleys  and  rages  at  the  mouth  of  the  pass. 
It  follows  the  rolling  flanks  of  Mount  T'ai  and  dances  be- 
neath the  pine-trees  and  cypresses.  In  gusty  bouts  it 
whirls.  It  rushes  in  fiery  anger.  It  rumbles  low  with  a 
noise  like  thunder,  tearing  down  rocks  and  trees,  smiting 
forests  and  grasses, 

[41] 


"  But  at  last  abating,  it  spreads  abroad,  seeks  empty 
places  and  crosses  the  threshold  of  rooms.  And  so  grow- 
ing gentler  and  clearer,  it  changes  and  is  dispersed  and 
dies. 

"  It  is  this  cool  clear  Man-Wind  that,  freeing  itself,  falls 
and  rises  till  it  climbs  the  high  walls  of  the  Castle  and  enters 
the  gardens  of  the  Inner  Palace.  It  bends  the  flowers  and 
leaves  with  its  breath.  It  wanders  among  the  osmanthus 
and  pepper-trees.  It  lingers  over  the  fretted  face  of  the 
pond,  to  steal  the  soul  of  the  hibiscus.  It  touches  the 
willow  leaves  and  scatters  the  fragrant  herbs.  Then  it 
pauses  in  the  courtyard  and  turning  to  the  North  goes  up 
to  the  Jade  Hall,  shakes  the  hanging  curtains  and  lightly 
passes  into  the  inner  room. 

"  And  so  it  becomes  the  Great  King's  wind. 

"  Now  such  a  wind  is  fresh  and  sweet  to  breathe  and  its 
gentle  murmuring  cures  the  diseases  of  men,  blows  away 
the  stupor  of  wine,  sharpens  sight  and  hearing  and  refreshes 
the  body.     This  is  what  is  called  the  Great  King's  wind." 

The  king  said :  "  You  have  well  described  it.  Now  tell 
me  of  the  common  people's  wind."  Sung  said:  "The 
common  people's  wind  rises  from  narrow  lanes  and  streets, 
carrying  clouds  of  dust.  Rushing  to  empty  spaces  it  at- 
tacks the  gateway,  scatters  the  dust-heap,  sends  the  cinders 
flying,  pokes  among  foul  and  rotting  things,  till  at  last  it 
enters  the  tiled  windows  and  reaches  the  rooms  of  the 
cottage.  Now  this  wind  is  heavy  and  turgid,  oppressing 
man's  heart.  It  brings  fever  to  his  body,  ulcers  to  his  lips 
and  dimness  to  his  eyes.  It  shakes  him  with  coughing;  it 
kills  him  before  his  time. 

"Such  is  the  Woman-wind  of  the  common  people." 

[42] 


The  following  is  a  sample  of  Sung  Yii's  prose: 

MASTER  TENG-T'U 

By  Sung  Yii  [third  century  B.  c] 

One  day  when  the  Chamberlain,  master  Teng-t'u,  was  in 
attendance  at  the  Palace  he  warned  the  King  against  Sung 
Yii,  saying :  "  Yii  is  a  man  of  handsome  features  and  calm 
bearing  and  his  tongue  is  prompt  with  subtle  sentences. 
Moreover,  his  character  is  licentious.  I  would  submit  that 
your  Majesty  is  ill-advised  in  allowing  him  to  follow  you 
into  the  Queen's  apartments."  The  King  repeated  Teng- 
t'u's  words  to  Sung  Yii.  Yii  replied :  "  My  beauty  of  face 
and  calmness  of  bearing  were  given  me  by  Heaven. 
Subtlety  of  speech  I  learnt  from  my  teachers.  As  for  my 
character,  I  deny  that  it  is  licentious."  The  King  said: 
"Can  you  substantiate  your  statement  that  you  are  not 
licentious?  If  you  cannot,  you  must  leave  the  Court." 
Sung  Yii  said :  "  Of  all  the  women  in  the  world,  the  most 
beautiful  are  the  women  of  the  land  of  Ch'u.  And  in  all 
the  land  of  Ch'u  there  are  none  like  the  women  of  my  own 
village.  And  in  my  village  there  are  none  that  can  be 
compared  with  the  girl  next  door. 

"The  girl  next  door  would  be  too  tall  if  an  inch  were 
added  to  her  height,  and  too  short  if  an  inch  were  taken 
away.  Another  grain  of  powder  would  make  her  too  pale; 
another  touch  of  rouge  would  make  her  too  red.  Her  eye- 
brows are  like  the  plumage  of  the  kingfisher,  her  flesh  is 
[43] 


like  snow.  Her  waist  is  like  a  roll  of  new  silk,  her  teeth 
are  like  little  shells.  A  single  one  of  her  smiles  would 
perturb  the  whole  city  of  Yang  and  derange  the  suburb  of 
Hsia-ts'ai.^  For  three  years  this  lady  has  been  climbing  the 
garden  wall  and  peeping  at  me,  yet  I  have  never  succumbed. 

"  How  different  is  the  behaviour  of  master  Teng-t'u ! 
His  wife  has  a  woolly  head  and  misshapen  ears;  projecting 
teeth  irregularly  set;  a  crook  in  her  back  and  a  halt  in 
her  gait.  Moreover,  she  has  running  sores  in  front  and 
behind. 

"Yet  Teng-t'u  fell  in  love  with  her  and  caused  her  to 
bear  him  five  children. 

"  I  would  have  your  Majesty  consider  which  of  us  is  the 
debauchee." 

Sung  Yii  was  not  dismissed  from  court. 

^Fashionable  quarters  in  the  capital  of  Ch'u  state. 


[44] 


THE  ORPHAN 

Anon,  [first  century  B.  c] 

To  be  an  orphan. 

To  be  fated  to  be  an  orphan. 

How  bitter  is  this  lot! 

When  my  father  and  mother  were  alive 

I  used  to  ride  in  a  carriage 

With  four  fine  horses. 

But  when  tliey  both  died. 

My  brother  and  sister-in-law 

Sent  me  out  to  be  a  merchant 
In  the  south  I  travelled  to  the  **  Nine  Rij 
And  in  the  east  as  far  as  Ch'i  and  Lu. 
At  the  end  of  the  year  when  I  came  home 
I  dared  not  tell  them  what  I  had  suffered  — 
Of  the  lice  and  vermin  in  my  head. 
Of  the  dust  in  my  face  and  eyes. 
My  brother  told  me  to  get  ready  the  dinner. 
My  sister-in-law  told  me  to  see  after  the  horses. 
I  was  always  going  up  into  the  hall 
And  running  down  again  to  the  parlour. 
My  tears  fell  like  rain. 

In  the  morning  they  sent  me  to  draw  water, 
I  didn't  get  back  till  night-fall. 
My  hands  were  all  sore 
[45] 


And  I  had  no  shoes. 

I  walked  the  cold  earth 

Treading  on  thorns  and  brambles. 

As  I  stopped  to  pull  out  the  thorns, 

How  bitter  my  heart  was! 

My  tears  fell  and  fell 

And  I  went  on  sobbing  and  sobbing. 

In  winter  I  have  no  great-coat; 

Nor  in  summer,  thin  clothes. 

It  is  no  pleasure  to  be  alive. 

I  had  rather  quickly  leave  the  earth 

And  go  beneath  the  Yellow  Springs.^ 

The  April  winds  blow 

And  the  grass  is  growing  green. 

In  the  third  month  —  silkworms  and  mulberries. 

In  the  sixth  month  —  the  melon-harvest. 

I  went  out  with  the  melon-cart 

And  just  as  I  was  coming  home 

The  melon-cart  turned  over. 

The  people  who  came  to  help  me  were  few. 

But  the  people  who  ate  the  melons  were  many, 

All  they  left  me  was  the  stalks  — 

To  take  home  as  fast  as  I  could. 

My  brother  and  sister-in-law  were  harsh, 

They  asked  me  all  sorts  of  awful  questions. 

Why  does  everyone  in  the  village  hate  me? 

I  want  to  write  a  letter  and  send  it 

To  my  mother  and  father  under  the  earth, 

And  tell  them  I  can't  go  on  any  longer 

Living  with  my  brother  and  sister-in-law. 

1  Hades. 
[46-] 


THE  SICK  WIFE 

She  had  been  ill  for  years  and  years; 

She  sent  for  me  to  say  something. 

She  couldn't  say  what  she  wanted 

Because  of  the  tears  that  kept  coming  of  themselves. 

"  I  have  burdened  you  with  orphan  children, 

With  orphan  children  two  or  three. 

Don't  let  our  children  go  hungry  or  cold; 

If  they  do  wrong,  don't  slap  or  beat  them. 

When  you  take  out  the  baby,  rock  it  in  your  arms. 

Don't  forget  to  do  that." 

Last  she  said, 

"  When  I  carried  them  in  my  arms  they  had  no  clothes 

And  now  their  jackets  have  no  linings."  [She  dies. 

I  shut  the  doors  and  barred  the  windows 

And  left  the  motherless  children. 

When  I  got  to  the  market  and  met  my  friends,  I  wept. 

I  sat  down  and  could  not  go  with  them. 

I  asked  them  to  buy  some  cakes  for  my  children. 

In  the  presence  of  my  friends  I  sobbed  and  cried. 

I  tried  not  to  grieve,  but  sorrow  would  not  cease. 

I  felt  in  my  pocket  and  gave  my  friends  some  money. 

When  I  got  home  I  found  my  children 

Calling  to  be  taken  into  their  mother's  arms. 

I  walked  up  and  down  in  the  empty  room 

This  way  and  that  a  long  while. 

Then  I  went  away  from  it  and  said  to  myself, 

"  I  will  forget  and  never  speak  of  her  again." 

[47] 


COCK-CROW  SONG 

Anon,  [first  century  B.  c] 

In  the  eastern  quarter  dawn  breaks,  the  stars  flicker  pale. 
The  morning  cock  at  Ju-nan  mounts  the  wall  and  crows. 
The  songs  are  over,  the  clock  ^  run  down,  but  still  the  feast 

is  set. 
The  moon  grows  dim  and  the  stars  are  few;  morning  has 

come  to  the  world. 
At  a  thousand  gates  and  ten  thousand  doors  the  fish-shaped 

keys  turn; 
Round  the  Palace  and  up  by  the  Castle,  the  crows  and 

magpies  are  flying. 

^A  water-clock. 


[48] 


THE  GOLDEN  PALACE 

Anon,  [first  century  B.  c] 

We  go  to  the  Golden  Palace: 

We  set  out  the  jade  cups. 

We  summon  the  honoured  guests 

To  enter  at  the  Golden  Gate. 

They  enter  at  the  Golden  Gate 

And  go  to  the  Golden  Hall. 
In  the  Eastern  Kitchen  the  meat  is  sliced  and  ready  — 
Roast  beef  and  boiled  pork  and  mutton. 
The  Master  of  the  Feast  hands  round  the  wine. 
The  harp-players  sound  their  clear  chords. 

The  cups  are  pushed  aside  and  we  face  each  other  at  chess: 
The  rival  pawns  are  marshalled  rank  against  rank. 
The  fire  glows  and  the  smoke  puffs  and  curls; 
From  the  incense-burner  rises  a  delicate  fragrance. 
The  clear  wine  has  made  our  cheeks  red; 
Round  the  table  joy  and  peace  prevail. 
May  those  who  shared  in  this  day's  delight 
Through  coimtless  autimms  enjoy  like  felicity. 


[49] 


OLD  POEM  " 

At  fifteen  I  went  with  the  army, 

At  fourscore  I  came  home. 

On  the  way  I  met  a  man  from  the  village, 

I  asked  him  who  there  was  at  home. 

"That   over   there  is   your  house, 

All  covered  over  with  trees  and  bushes." 

Rabbits  had  run  in  at  the  dog-hole. 

Pheasants  flew  down  from  the  beams  of  the  roof. 

In  the  courtyard  was  growing  some  wild  grain; 

And  by  the  well,  some  wild  mallows. 

ril  boil  the  grain  and  make  porridge, 

I'll  pluck  the  mallows  and  make  soup. 

Soup  and  porridge  are  both  cooked, 

But  there  is  no  one  to  eat  them  with. 

I  went  out  and  looked  towards  the  east, 

While  tears  fell  and  wetted  my  clothes. 


[50] 


MEETING  IN  THE  ROAD 

In  a  narrow  road  where  there  was  not  room  to  pass 

My  carriage  met  the  carriage  of  a  young  man. 

And  while  his  axle  was  touching  my  axle 

In  the  narrow  road  I  asked  him  where  he  lived. 

"  The  place  where  I  live  is  easy  enough  to  find, 

Easy  to  find  and  difficult  to  forget. 

The  gates  of  my  house  are  built  of  yellow  gold. 

The  hall  of  my  house  is  paved  with  white  jade. 

On  the  hall  table  flagons  of  wine  are  set, 

I  had  summoned  to  serve  me  dancers  of  Han-tan.^ 

In  the  midst  of  a  courtyard  grows  a  cassia-tree, — 

And  candles  on  its  branches  flaring  away  in  the  night. 

1  Capital  of  the  kingdom  of  Chao,  where  the  people  were  famous 
for  their  beauty. 


[51] 


FIGHTING  SOUTH  OF  THE  CASTLE 

Anon,  Icirca  124  B.  c] 

They  fought  south  of  the  Castle, 

They  died  north  of  the  wall. 

They  died  in  the  moors  and  were  not  buried. 

Their  flesh  was  the  food  of  crows. 

"  Tell  the  crows  we  are  not  afraid ; 

We  have  died  in  the  moors  and  cannot  be  buried. 

Crows,  how  can  our  bodies  escape  you?  " 

The  waters  flowed  deep 

And  the  rushes  in  the  pool  were  dark. 

The  riders  fought  and  were  slain: 

Their  horses  wander  neighing. 

By  the  bridge  there  was  a  house.^ 

Was  it  south,  was  it  north? 

The  harvest  was  never  gathered. 

How  can  we  give  you  your  off"erings? 

You  served  your  Prince  faithfully, 

Though  all  in  vain. 

I  think  of  you,  faithful  soldiers; 

Your  service  shall  not  be  forgotten. 

For  in  the  morning  you  went  out  to  battle 

And  at  night  you  did  not  return. 

^  There  is  no  trace  of  it  left.  This  passage  describes  the  havoc  of 
war.  The  harvest  has  not  been  gathered:  therefore  corn-offerings 
cannot  be  made  to  the  spirits  of  the  dead. 

[52] 


THE  EASTERN  GATE 

Anon,  [first  century  B.  c.i 

A  poor  man  determines  to  go  out  into  the  world  and  make 
his  fortune.     His  wife  tries  to  detain  him. 

I  WENT  out  at  the  eastern  gate: 

I  never  thought  to  return. 

But  I  came  back  to  the  gate  with  my  heart  full  of  sorrow. 


There  was  not  a  peck  of  rice  in  the  bin : 
There  was  not  a  coat  hanging  on  the  pegs. 
So  I  took  my  sword  and  went  towards  the  gate. 
My  wife  and  child  clutched  at  my  coat  and  wept; 
"  Some  people  want  to  be  rich  and  grand : 
I  only  want  to  share  my  porridge  with  you. 
Above,  we  have  the  blue  waves  of  the  sky: 
Below,  the  yellow  face  of  this  little  child." 

"  Dear  wife,  I  cannot  stay. 

Soon  it  will  be  too  late. 

When  one  is  growing  old 

One  cannot  put  things  off." 


[53] 


OLD  AND  NEW 

Anon,  [first  century  B.  c] 

She  went  up  the  mountain  to  pluck  wild  herbs; 

She  came  down  the  mountain  and  met  her  former  husband. 

She  knelt  down  and  asked  her  former  husband 

"  What  do  you  find  your  new  wife  like?  " 

"  My  new  wife,  although  her  talk  is  clever, 

Cannot  charm  me  as  my  old  wife  could. 

In  beauty  of  face  there  is  not  much  to  choose, 

But  in  usefulness  they  are  not  at  all  alike. 

My  new  wife  comes  in  from  the  road  to  meet  me; 

My  old  wife  always  came  down  from  her  tower. 

My  new  wife  is  clever  at  embroidering  silk; 

My  old  wife  was  good  at  plain  sewing. 

Of  silk  embroidery  one  can  do  an  inch  a  day; 

Of  plain  sewing,  more  than  five  feet. 

Putting  her  silks  by  the  side  of  your  sewing, 

I  see  that  the  new  will  not  compare  with  the  old." 


[54] 


SOUTH  OF  THE  GREAT  SEA 

My  love  is  living 

To  the  south  of  the  Great  Sea. 

What  shall  I  send  to  greet  him? 

Two  pearls  and  a  comb  of  tortoise-shell : 

I'll  send  them  to  him  packed  in  a  box  of  jade. 

They  tell  me  he  is  not  true: 

They  tell  me  he  dashed  my  box  to  the  ground, 

Dashed  it  to  the  ground  and  burnt  it 

And  scattered  its  ashes  to  the  wind. 

From  this  day  to  the  ends  of  time 

I  must  never  think  of  him, 

Never  again  think  of  him. 

The  cocks  are  crowing, 

And  the  dogs  are  barking  — 

My  brother  and  his  wife  will  soon  know.^ 

The  autumn  wind  is  blowing; 

The  morning  wind  is  sighing. 

In  a  moment  the  sun  will  rise  in  the  east 

And  then  it  too  will  know. 

1  I.e.,  about  her  engagement  being  broken  off. 


[55] 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  VALLEY 

I  AM  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy. 

Enduring  the  shame  of  captivity. 

My  bones  stick  out  and  my  strength  is  gone 

Through  not  getting  enough  to  eat. 

My  brother  is  a  Mandarin 

And  his  horses  are  fed  on  maize. 

Why  can't  he  spare  a  little  money 

To  send  and  ransom  me? 


[56] 


OATHS  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

In  the  country  of  Yiieh  when  a  man  made  friends  with 
another  they  set  up  an  altar  of  earth  and  sacrificed  upon  it 
a  dog  and  a  cock,  reciting  this  oath  as  they  did  so: 

[1] 

If  you  were  riding  in  a  coach 
And  I  were  wearing  a  "  li,"  ^ 
And  one  day  we  met  in  the  road, 
You  would  get  down  and  bow. 
If  you  were  carrying  a  "  teng,"  ^ 
And  I  were  riding  on  a  horse, 
And  one  day  we  met  in  the  road 
I  would  get  down  for  you. 

[2] 
Shang  Ya! 

I  want  to  be  your  friend 
For  ever  and  ever  without  break  or  decay. 
When  the  hills  are  all  flat 
And  the  rivers  are  all  dry, 
When  it  lightens  and  thunders  in  winter, 
When  it  rains  and  snows  in  summer. 
When  Heaven  and  Earth  mingle  — 
Not  till  then  will  I  part  from  you. 

1 A  peasant's  coat  made  of  straw. 

2  An  umbrella  imder  which  a  cheap-jack  sells  his  wares. 

[57] 


BURIAL  SONGS 


[1] 


"  The  dew  on  the  garlic-leaf,"  sung  at  the  burial  of  kings 
and  princes. 

How  swiftly  it  dries, 

The  dew  on  the  garlic-leaf. 

The  dew  that  dries  so  fast 

To-morrow  will  fall  again. 

But  he  whom  we  carry  to  the  grave 

Will  never  more  return. 


■y 


[2] 
"  The  Graveyard,"  sung  at  the  burial  of  common  men. 

What  man's  land  is  the  graveyard? 
It  is  the  crowded  home  of  ghosts, — 
Wise  and  foolish  shoulder  to  shoulder. 
The  King  of  the  Dead  claims  them  all; 
Man's  fate  knows  no  tarrying. 


[58] 


SEVENTEEN  OLD  POEMS 

The  following  seventeen  poems  are  from  a  series  known 
as  the  Nineteen  Pieces  of  Old  Poetry.  Some  have  been  at- 
tributed to  Mei  Sheng  [first  century  B.  c],  and  one  to  Fu  I 
[first  century  A.  D.].  They  are  manifestly  not  all  by  the 
same  hand  nor  of  the  same  date.  Internal  evidence  shows 
that  No.  3  at  least  was  written  after  the  date  of  Mei  Sheng's 
death.  These  poems  had  an  enormous  influence  on  all  sub' 
sequent  poetry,  and  many  of  the  habitual  cliches  of  Chinese 
verse  are  taken  from  them.  I  have  omitted  two  because  of 
their  marked  inferiority. 

[1] 

On  and  on,  always  on  and  on 

Away  from  you,  parted  by  a  life-parting.^ 

Going  from  one  another  ten  thousand  "  li," 

Each  in  a  different  corner  of  the  World. 

The  way  between  is  difficult  and  long. 

Face  to  face  how  shall  we  meet  again? 

The  Tartar  horse  prefers  the  North  wind, 

The  bird  from  Yiieh  nests  on  the  Southern  branch. 

Since  we  parted  the  time  is  already  long, 

Daily  my  clothes  hang  looser  round  my  waist. 

I  Floating  clouds  obscure  the  white  sun. 
The  wandering  one  has  quite  forgotten  home. 
Thinking  of  you  has  made  me  suddenly  old, 
The  months  and  years  swiftly  draw  to  their  close. 
I'll  put  you  out  of  my  mind  and  forget  for  ever 
And  try  with  all  my  might  to  eat  and  thrive.^ 

1  The  opposite  of  a  parting  by  death. 

2  The  popular,  but  erroneous,  interpretation  of  these  two  lines  is; 

"  That  I'm  cast  away  and  rejected  I  will  not  repine, 
But  only  hope  with  all  my  heart  you're  well." 

[59] 


[2] 
Green,  green, 

The  grass  by  the  river-bank. 
Thick,  thick. 

The  willow  trees  in  the  garden. 
Sad, sad, 

The  lady  in  the  tower. 
White,  white. 

Sitting  at  the  casement  window. 
Fair,  fair. 

Her  red-powdered  face. 
Small,  small. 

She  puts  out  her  pale  hand. 
Once  she  was  a  dancing-house  girl. 
Now  she  is  a  wandering  man's  wife. 
The  wandering  man  went,  but  did  not  return. 
It  is  hard  alone  to  keep  an  empty  bed. 


[3] 
Green,  green. 
The  cypress  on  the  mound. 
Firm,  firm. 

The  boulder  in  the  stream. 
Man's  life  lived  within  this  world. 
Is  like  the  sojourning  of  a  hurried  traveller. 
A  cup  of  wine  together  will  make  us  glad, 
And  a  little  friendship  is  no  little  matter. 


Yoking  my  chariot  I  urge  my  stubborn  horses. 
I  wander  about  in  the  streets  of  Wan  and  Lo. 
In  Lo  Town  how  fine  everything  is! 
[60] 


The  "  Caps  and  Belts  "  ^  go  seeking  each  other  out. 
The  great  boulevards  are  intersected  by  lanes, 
Wherein  are  the  town-houses  of  Royal  Dukes. 
The  two  palaces  stare  at  each  other  from  afar, 
The  twin  gates  rise  a  hundred  feet. 
By  prolonging  the  feast  let  us  keep  our  hearts  gay, 
And  leave  no  room  for  sadness  to  creep  in. 

[4] 
Of  this  day's  glorious  feast  and  revel 
The  pleasure  and  delight  are  difficult  to  describe. 
Plucking  the  lute  they  sent  forth  lingering  sounds, 
The  new  melodies  in  beauty  reached  the  divine. 
Skilful  singers  intoned  the  high  words, 
Those  who  knew  the  tune  heard  the  trueness  of  their  singing. 
We  sat  there  each  with  the  same  desire 
And  like  thoughts  by  each  unexpressed : 
"  Man  in  the  world  lodging  for  a  single  life-time 
Passes  suddenly  like  dust  borne  on  the  wind. 
Then  let  us  hurry  out  with  high  steps 
And  be  the  first  to  reach  the  highways  and  fords: 
Rather  than  stay  at  home  wretched  and  poor 
For  long  years  plunged  in  sordid  grief." 

[5] 
In  the  north-west  there  is  a  high  house. 
Its  top  level  with  the  floating  clouds. 
Embroidered  curtains  thinly  screen  its  windows, 
Its  storied  tower  is  built  on  three  steps. 
From  above  there  comes  a  noise  of  playing  and  singing, 

iRigh  officers. 
[61] 


The  tune  sounding,  oh !  how  sad ! 

Who  can  it  be,  playing  so  sad  a  tune? 

Surely  it  must  be  Ch'i  Liang's  ^  wife. 

The  tranquil  "  D  "  follows  the  wind's  rising, 

The  middle  lay  lingers  indecisive. 

To  each  note,  two  or  three  sobs, 

Her  high  will  conquered  by  overwhelming  grief. 

She  does  not  regret  that  she  is  left  so  sad, 

But  minds  that  so  few  can  understand  her  song. 

She  wants  to  become  those  two  wild  geese 

That  with  beating  wings  rise  high  aloft. 


[6] 

Crossing  the  river  I  pluck  hibiscus-flowers: 
In  the  orchid-swamps  are  many  fragrant  herbs. 
I  gather  them,  but  who  shall  I  send  them  to? 
My  love  is  living  in  lands  far  away. 
I  turn  and  look  towards  my  own  country: 
The  long  road  stretches  on  for  ever. 
The  same  heart,  yet  a  different  dwelling : 
Always  fretting,  till  we  are  grown  old ! 

[7] 

A  BRIGHT  moon  illumines  the  night-prospect : 

The  house-cricket  chirrups  on  the  eastern  wall. 

The  Handle  of  the  Pole-star  points  to  the  Beginning  of 

Winter. 
The  host  of  stars  is  scattered  over  the  sky. 

1  Who  had  ro  father,  no  husband,  and  no  children. 

[62] 


The  white  dew  wets  the  moor-grasses, — 

With  sudden  swiftness  the  times  and  seasons  change. 

The  autumn  cicada  sings  among  the  trees, 

The  swallows,  alas,  whither  are  they  gone? 

Once  I  had  a  same-house  friend. 

He  took  flight  and  rose  high  away. 

He  did  not  remember  how  once  we  went  hand  in  hand, 

But  left  me  like  footsteps  behind  one  in  the  dust. 

In  the  South  is  the  Winnowing-fan  and  the  Pole-star  in  the 

North, 
And  a  Herd-boy  ^  whose  ox  has  never  borne  the  yoke. 
A  friend  who  is  not  firm  as  a  great  rock 
Is  of  no  profit  and  idly  bears  the  name. 

[8] 
In  the  courtyard  there  grows  a  strange  tree, 
Its  green  leaves  ooze  with  a  fragrant  moisture. 
Holding  the  branch  I  cut  a  flower  from  the  tree. 
Meaning  to  send  it  away  to  the  person  I  love. 
Its  sweet  smell  fills  my  sleeves  and  lap. 
The  road  is  long,  how  shall  I  get  it  there? 
Such  a  thing  is  not  fine  enough  to  send: 
But  it  may  remind  him  of  the  time  that  has  past  since  he  left.* 

[9] 
Far  away  twinkles  the  Herd-boy  star; 
Brightly  shines  theJLady  of  the  Han  Riv^r. 

^Name  of  a  star.    The  Herd-boy,  who  is  only  figuratively  speak- 
ing a  herd-boy,  is  like  the  friend  who  is  no  real  friend. 

2/.e.  (supposing  he  went  away  in  the  autumn),  remind  him  that 
spring  has  come. 
[63] 


Slender,  slender  she  plies  her  white  fingers. 
Click,  click  go  the  wheels  of  her  spinning-loom. 
At  the  end  of  the  day  she  has  not  finished  her  task; 
Her  bitter  tears  fall  like  streaming  rain. 
The  Han  River  runs  shallow  and  clear; 
Set  between  them,  how  short  a  space! 
But  the  river  water  will  not  let  them  pass, 
Gazing  at  each  other  but  never  able  to  speak. 

[10] 
Turning  my  chariot  I  yoke  my  horses  and  go. 
On  and  on  down  the  long  roads 
The  autumn  winds  shake  the  hundred  grasses. 
On  every  side,  how  desolate  and  bare! 
The  things  I  meet  are  all  new  things. 
Their  strangeness  hastens  the  coming  of  old  age. 
Prosperity  and  decay  each  have  their  season. 
Success  is  bitter  when  it  is  slow  in  coming. 
Man's  life  is  not  metal  or  stone. 
He  cannot  far  prolong  the  days  of  his  fate. 
Suddenly  he  follows  in  the  way  of  things  that  change. 
Fame  is  the  only  treasure  that  endures. 

[11] 
The  Eastern  Castle  stands  tall  and  high; 
Far  and  wide  stretch  the  towers  that  guard  it. 
The  whirling  wind  uprises  and  shakes  the  earth; 
The  autumn  grasses  grow  thick  and  green. 
The  four  seasons  alternate  without  pause, 
The  year's  end  hurries  swiftly  on. 
"^  The  Bird  of  the  Morning  Wind  is  stricken  with  sorrow 
[64] 


The  frail  cicada  suffers  and  is  hard  pressed. 

Free  and  clear,  let  us  loosen  the  bonds  of  our  hearts. 

Why  should  we  go  on  always  restraining  and  binding? 

In  Yen  and  Chao  are  many  fair  ladies, 

Beautiful  people  with  faces  like  jade. 

Their  clothes  are  made  all  of  silk  gauze, 

They  stand  at  the  door  practising  tranquil  lays. 

The  echo  of  their  singing,  how  sad  it  sounds! 

By  the  pitch  of  the  song  one  knows  the  stops  have  been 

tightened. 
To  ease  their  minds  they  arrange  their  shawls  and  belts; 
Lowering  their  song,  a  little  while  they  pause. 
"  I  should  like  to  be  those  two  flying  swallows 
Who  are  carrying  clay  to  nest  in  the  eaves  of  your  house." 


[12] 
I  DRIVE  my  chariot  up  to  the  Eastern  Gate; 
From  afar  I  see  the  graveyard  north  of  the  Wall. 

[The  white  aspens  how  they  murmur,  murmur; 
Pines  and  cypresses  flank  the  broad  paths. 
Beneath  lie  men  who  died  long  ago ; 
Black,  black  is  the  long  night  that  holds  them. 
Deep  down  beneath  the  Yellow  Springs, 
Thousands  of  years  they  lie  without  waking. 

In  infinite  succession  light  and  darkness  shift, 

And  years  vanish  like  the  morning  dew. 

Man's  life  is  like  a  sojourning. 

His  longevity  lacks  the  firmness  of  stone  and  metal. 

For  ever  it  has  been  that  mourners  in   their  turn  were 

mourned, 
[65] 


Saint  and  Sage, —  all  alike  are  trapped. 
Seeking^  by  food  to  obtain  Immortality 
Many  have  been  the  dupe  of  strange  drugs. 
Better  far  to  drink  good  wine 
And  clothe  our  bodies  in  robes  of  satin  and  silk. 


[13]  Continuation  of  [12] 
The  dead  are  gone  anJ  with  them  we  cannot  converse. 
The  living  are  here  and  ought  to  have  our  love. 
Leaving  the  city-gate  I  look  ahead 
And  see  before  me  only  mounds  and  tombs. 
The  old  graves  are  ploughed  up  into  fields. 
The  pines  and  cypresses  are  hewn  for  timber. 
In  the  white  aspens  sad  winds  sing; 
Their  long  murmuring  kills  my  heart  with  grief. 
I  want  to  go  home,  to  ride  to  my  village  gate. 
I  want  to  go  back,  but  there's  no  road  back. 


[14] 
The  years  of  a  lifetime  do  not  reach  a  hundred, 
Yet  they  contain  a  thousand  years'  sorrow. 
When  days  are  short  and  the  dull  nights  long, 
Why  not  take  a  lamp  and  wander  forth? 
If  you  want  to  be  happy  you  must  do  it  now. 
There  is  no  waiting  till  an  after-time. 
The  fool  who's  loath  to  spend  the  wealth  he's  got 
Becomes  the  laughing-stock  of  after  ages. 
It  is  true  that  Master  Wang  became  immortal, 
But  how  can  we  hope  to  share  his  lot? 

[66] 


[15] 
Cold,  cold  the  year  draws  to  its  end, 
The  crickets  and  grasshoppers  make  a  doleful  chirping. 
The  chill  wind  increases  its  violence. 
My  wandering  love  has  no  coat  to  cover  him. 
He  gave  his  embroidered  furs  to  the  Lady  of  Lo, 
But  from  me  his  bedfellow  he  is  quite  estranged. 
Sleeping  alone  in  the  depth  of  the  long  night 
In  a  dream  I  thought  I  saw  the  light  of  his  face. 
My  dear  one  thought  of  our  old  joys  together, 
He  came  in  his  chariot  and  gave  me  the  front  reins. 
I  wanted  so  to  prolong  our  play  and  laughter. 
To  hold  his  hand  and  go  back  with  him  in  his  coach. 
But,  when  he  had  come  he  would  not  stay  long 
Nor  stop  to  go  with  me  to  the  Inner  Chamber. 
Truly  without  the  falcon's  wings  to  carry  me 
How  can  I  rival  the  flying  wind's  swiftness? 
I  go  and  lean  at  the  gate  and  think  of  my  grief, 
My  falling  tears  wet  the  double  gates. 

[16] 

At  the  beginning  of  winter  a  cold  spirit  comes. 

The  North  Wind  blows  —  chill,  chill. 

My  sorrows  being  many,  I  know  the  length  of  the  nights. 

Raising  my  head  I  look  at  the  stars  in  their  places. 

On  the  fifteenth  day  the  bright  moon  is  full. 

On  the  twentieth  day  the  "  toad  and  hare  "  wane,^ 

A  stranger  came  to  me  from  a  distant  land 

1  The  "  toad  and  hare  '*  correspond  to  our  "  man  in  the  moon." 
The  waning  of  the  moon  symbolizes  the  waning  of  the  lover's  aflfec- 
tion. 
[67] 


And  brought  me  a  single  scroll  with  writing  on  it; 
At  the  top  of  the  scroll  was  written  "  Do  not  forget," 
At  the  bottom  was  written  "  Goodbye  for  Ever." 
I  put  the  letter  away  in  the  folds  of  my  dress, 
For  three  years  the  writing  did  not  fade. 
How  with  an  undivided  heart  I  loved  you 
I  fear  that  you  will  never  know  or  guess. 

[17] 
The  bright  moon,  oh,  how  white  it  shines. 
Shines  down  on  the  gauze  curtains  of  my  bed. 
Racked  by  sorrow  I  toss  and  cannot  sleep. 
Picking  up  my  clothes,  I  wander  up  and  down. 
My  absent  love  says  that  he  is  happy. 
But  I  would  rather  he  said  he  was  coming  back. 
Out  in  the  courtyard  I  stand  hesitating,  alone. 
To  whom  can  I  tell  the  sad  thoughts  I  think? 
Staring  before  me  I  enter  my  room  again; 
Falling  tears  wet  my  mantle  and  robe. 


[68] 


THE  AUTUMN  WIND 

By  Wu'ti  [157-87  B.  c],  sixth  emperor  of  the  Han  dy- 
nasty. He  came  to  the  throne  when  he  was  only  sixteen. 
In  this  poem  he  regrets  that  he  is  obliged  to  go  on  an 
official  journey,  leaving  his  mistress  behind  in  the  capital. 
He  is  seated  in  his  state  barge  surrounded  by  his  ministers. 

Autumn  wind  rises:  white  clouds  fly. 

Grass  and  trees  wither:  geese  go  south.  ^ 

Orchids  all  in  bloom:  chrysanthemums  smell  sweet. 

I  think  of  my  lovely  lady:  I  never  can  forget. 

Floating-pagoda  boat  crosses  Fen  River. 

Across  the  mid-stream  white  waves  rise; 

Flute  and  drum  keep  time  to  sound  of  the  rowers'  song; 

Amidst  revel  and  feasting,  sad  thoughts  come; 

Youth's  years  how  few!     Age  how  sure! 


[69] 


LI  FUJEN 

The  sound  of  her  silk  skirt  has  stopped. 
On  the  marble  pavement  dust  grows. 
Her  empty  room  is  cold  and  still. 
Fallen  leaves  are  piled  against  the  doors. 

Longing  for  that  lovely  lady 
How  can  I  bring  my  aching  heart  to  rest? 

The  above  poem  was  written  by  Wu-ti  when  his  mistress, 
Li  Fu'jen,  died.  Unable  to  bear  his  grief,  he  sent  for 
wizards  from  all  parts  of  China,  hoping  that  they  would  be 
able  to  put  him  into  communication  with  her  spirit.  At  last 
one  of  them  managed  to  project  her  shape  on  to  a  curtain. 
The  emperor  cried: 

Is  it  or  isn't  it? 

I  stand  and  look. 

The  swish,  swish  of  a  silk  skirt. 

How  slow  she  comes! 


[70] 


SONG  OF  SNOW-WHITE  HEADS 

Ssu-ma  Hsiang-ju  was  a  young  poet  who  had  lost  his  posi- 
tion at  court  owing  to  ill-health.  One  day  Cho  Wen-chiin, 
a  rich  man's  daughter,  heard  him  singing  at  a  feast  given  by 
her  father.  She  eloped  with  him  that  night,  and  they  set  up 
a  wine-shop  together.  After  a  time  Hsiang-ju  became  fa- 
mous as  a  poet,  but  his  character  was  marred  by  love  of 
money.  He  sold  love-poems,  which  the  ladies  of  the  palace 
sent  to  the  emperor  in  order  to  win  his  favour.  Finally,  he 
gave  presents  to  the  "  ladies  of  Mo-ling,"  hoping  to  secure  a 
concubine.  It  was  this  step  that  induced  his  mistress,  Cho 
Wen-chiin,  to  write  the  following  poem. 

Our  love  was  pure 
As  the  snow  on  the  mountains: 
White  as  a  moon 
Between  the  clouds  — 
They're  telling  me 
Your  thoughts  are  double: 
That's  why  I've  come 
To  break  it  off. 
To-day  we'll  drink 
A  cup  of  wine. 
To-morrow  we'll  part 
Beside  the  Canal : 
Walking  about, 
Beside  the  Canal, 
Where  its  branches  divide 
East  and  west. 
Alas  and  alas, 
And  again  alas. 
[71] 


So  must  a  girl 

Cry  when  she's  married. 

If  she  find  not  a  man 

Of  single  heart, 

Who  will  not  leave  her 

Till  her  hair  is  white. 


[72] 


TO  HIS  WIFE 

By  General  Su  Wu  [cirea  100  B.  c] 

Since  our  hair  was  plaited  and  we  became  man  and  wife 
The  love  between  us  was  never  broken  by  doubt. 
So  let  us  be  merry  this  night  together, 
Feasting  and  playing  while  the  good  time  lasts. 


I  suddenly  remember  the  distance  that  I  must  travel ; 
I  spring  from  bed  and  look  out  to  see  the  time. 
The  stars  and  planets  are  all  grown  dim  in  the  sky; 
Long,  long  is  the  road;  I  cannot  stay. 
I  am  going  on  service,  away  to  the  battle-ground. 
And  I  do  not  know  when  I  shall  come  back. 
I  hold  your  hand  with  only  a  deep  sigh ; 
Afterwards,  tears  —  in  the  days  when  we  are  parted. 
With  all  your  might  enjoy  the  spring  flowers, 
But  do  not  forget  the  time  of  our  love  and  pride. 
Know  that  if  I  live,  I  will  come  back  again. 
And  if  I  die,  we  will  go  on  thinking  of  each  other. 


[73] 


LI  LING 

[Parting  from  Su  Wu] 

The  good  time  will  never  come  back  again: 

In  a  moment, —  our  parting  will  be  over. 

Anxiously  —  we  halt  at  the  road-side, 

Hesitating  —  we  embrace  where  the  fields  begin. 

The  clouds  above  are  floating  across  the  sky: 

Swiftly,  swiftly  passing:  or  blending  together. 

The  waves  in  the  wind  lose  their  fixed  place 

And  are  rolled  away  each  to  a  corner  of  Heaven. 

From  now  onwards  —  long  must  be  our  parting. 

So  let  us  stop  again  for  a  little  while. 

I  wish  I  could  ride  on  the  wings  of  the  morning  wind 

And  go  with  you  right  to  your  journey's  end. 

Li  Ling  and  Su  Wu  ivere  both  prisoners  in  the  land  of  the 
Huns.  After  nineteen  years  Su  Wu  was  released.  Li  Ling 
would  not  go  back  with  him.  When  invited  to  do  so,  he  got 
up  and  danced,  singing: 

I  came  ten  thousand  leagues 

Across  sandy  deserts 

In  the  service  of  my  Prince, 

To  break  the  Hun  tribes. 

My  way  was  blocked  and  barred, 

My  arrows  and  sword  broken. 

My  armies  had  faded  away, 

My  reputation  had  gone. 


My  old  mother  is  long  dead. 
Although  I  want  to  requite  my  Prince 
How  can  I  return? 


[74] 


LAMENT  OF  HSI-CHUN 

About  the  year  110  B.  c.  a  Chinese  Princess  named  Hsi- 
chiin  was  sent,  for  political  reasons,  to  be  the  wife  of  a 
central  Asian  nomad  king,  K'un  Mo,  king  of  the  Wu-sun, 
When  she  got  there,  she  found  her  husband  old  and  decrepit. 
He  only  saw  her  once  or  twice  a  year,  when  they  drank  a  cup 
of  wine  together.  They  could  not  converse,  as  they  had  no 
language  in  common. 

My  people  have  married  me 

In  a  far  corner  of  Earth : 

Sent  me  away  to  a  strange  land, 

To  the  king  of  the  Wu-sun. 

A  tent  is  my  house, 

Of  felt  are  my  walls; 

Raw  flesh  my  food 

With  mare's  milk  to  drink. 

Always  thinking  of  my  own  country, 

My  heart  sad  within. 

Would  I  were  a  yellow  stork 

And  could  fly  to  my  old  home! 


[75] 


CH'IN  CHIA 

CNin  Chm  [first  century  A.  D.]  was  summoned  to  take  up 
an  appointment  at  the  capital  at  a  time  when  his  wife  was 
ill  and  staying  with  her  parents.  He  was  therefore  unable 
to  say  goodbye  to  her,  and  sent  her  three  poems  instead. 
This  is  the  last  of  the  three. 

Solemn,  solemn  the  coachman  gets  ready  to  go: 

"  Chiang,  chiang"  the  harness  bells  ring. 

At  break  of  dawn  I  must  start  on  my  long  journey: 

At  cock-crow  I  must  gird  on  my  belt. 

I  turn  back  and  look  at  the  empty  room: 

For  a  moment  I  almost  think  I  see  you  there. 

One  parting,  but  ten  thousand  regrets: 

As  I  take  my  seat,  my  heart  is  unquiet. 

What  shall  I  do  to  tell  you  all  my  thoughts? 

How  can  I  let  you  know  of  all  my  love? 

Precious  hairpins  make  the  head  to  shine 

And  bright  mirrors  can  reflect  beauty. 

Fragrant  herbs  banish  evil  smells 

And  the  scholar's  harp  has  a  clear  note. 

The  man  in  the  Book  of  Odes  ^  who  was  given  a  quince 

Wanted  to  pay  it  back  with  diamonds  and  rubies. 

When  I  think  of  all  the  things  you  have  done  for  me, 

How  ashamed  I  am  to  have  done  so  little  for  you ! 

Although  I  know  that  it  is  a  poor  return. 

All  I  can  give  you  is  this  description  of  my  feelings. 

1  Odes,  V,  10. 
[76] 


CH'IN  CHIA'S  WIFE'S  REPLY 

My  poor  body  is  alas  unworthy: 

I  was  ill  when  first  you  brought  me  home. 

Limp  and  weary  in  the  house  — 

Time  passed  and  I  got  no  better. 

We  could  hardly  ever  see  each  other: 

I  could  not  serve  you  as  I  ought. 

Then  you  received  the  Imperial  Mandate: 

You  were  ordered  to  go  far  away  to  the  City. 

Long,  long  must  be  our  parting : 

I  was  not  destined  to  tell  you  my  thoughts. 

I  stood  on  tiptoe  gazing  into  the  distance, 

Interminably  gazing  at  the  road  that  had  taken  you. 

With  thoughts  of  you  my  mind  is  obsessed: 

In  my  dreams  I  see  the  light  of  your  face. 

Now  you  are  started  on  your  long  journey 

Each  day  brings  you  further  from  me. 

Oh  that  I  had  a  bird's  wings 

And  high  flying  could  follow  you. 

Long  I  sob  and  long  I  cry: 

The  tears  fall  down  and  wet  my  skirt. 


[77] 


SONG 

By  Sung  Tzu-hou  [second  century  A.  D.] 

On  the  Eastern  Way  at  the  city  of  Lo-yang.  . 

At  the  edge  of  the  road  peach-trees  and  plum-trees  grow; 

On  the  two  sides, —  flower  matched  by  flower ; 

Across  the  road, —  leaf  touching  leaf. 

A  spring  wind  rises  from  the  north-east; 
Flowers  and  leaves  gently  nod  and  sway. 
Up  the  road  somebody's  daughter  comes 
Carrying  a  basket,  to  gather  silkworms'  food. 

[She  sees  the  fruit  trees  in  blossom  and,  forgetting 
about    her    silkworms,    begins    to    pluck    the 
branches.] 
With  her  slender  hand  she  breaks  a  branch  from  the  tree; 
The  flowers  fall,  tossed  and  scattered  in  the  wind. 

The  tree  says: 
"  Lovely  lady,  I  never  did  you  harm; 
Why  should  you  hate  me  and  do  me  injury?  " 

The  lady  answers: 
"  At  high  autumn  in  the  eighth  and  ninth  moons 
When  the  white  dew  changes  to  hoar-frost. 
At  the  year's  end  the  wind  would  have  lashed  your  boughs, 
[78] 


Your  sweet  fragrance  could  not  have  lasted  long. 

Though  in  the  autunui  your  leaves  patter  to  the  ground, 

When  spring  comes,  your  gay  bloom  returns. 

But  in  men's  lives  when  their  bright  youth  is  spent 

Joy  and  love  never  come  back  again.  ^ 


y^ 


"1 


T» 


Vh 


[79] 


CHAPTER  TWO 


SATIRE  ON  PAYING  CALLS  IN  AUGUST 

By  Ch'eng  Hsiao  [cirea  A.  d.  250] 

When  I  was  young,  throughout  the  hot  season 

There  were  no  carriages  driving  about  the  roads, 

People  shut  their  doors  and  lay  down  in  the  cool: 

Or  if  they  went  out,  it  was  not  to  pay  calls. 

Nowadays  —  ill-bred,  ignorant  fellows. 

When  they  feel  the  heat,  make  for  a  friend's  house. 

The  unfortunate  host,  when  he  hears  someone  coming 

Scowls  and  frowns,  but  can  think  of  no  escape. 

"  There's  nothing  for  it  but  to  rise  and  go  to  the  door," 

And  in  his  comfortable  seat  he  groans  and  sighs. 


The  conversation  does  not  end  quickly: 
Prattling  and  babbling,  what  a  lot  he  says! 
Only  when  one  is  almost  dead  with  fatigue 
He  asks  at  last  if  one  isn't  finding  him  tiring. 
[One's  arm  is  almost  in  half  with  continual  fanning: 
The  sweat  is  pouring  down  one's  neck  in  streams.] 
Do  not  say  that  this  is  a  small  matter: 
I  consider  the  practice  a  blot  on  our  social  life. 
I  therefore  caution  all  wise  men 
That  August  visitors  should  not  be  admitted. 
[83] 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS  FATHER 

By  Wei  Wen-ti,  son  of  Ts'ao  Ts'ao,  who  founded  the 
dynasty  of  Wei,  and  died  in  A.  D.  220,  [The  poem  has  been 
wrongly  attributed  to  Han  Wen-ti,  died  157  B.  c] 

I  LOOK  up  and  see  /  his  curtains  and  bed : 
I  look  down  and  examine  /  his  table  and  mat. 
The  things  are  there  /  just  as  before. 
But  the  man  they  belonged  to  /  is  not  there. 
His  spirit  suddenly  /  has  taken  flight 
And  left  me  behind  /  far  away. 
To  whom  shall  I  look,  /  on  whom  rely? 
My  tears  flow  /  in  an  endless  stream. 
"  Yu,  yu  "  /  cry  the  wandering  deer 
As  they  carry  fodder  /  to  their  young  in  the  wood. 
Flap,  flap  /  fly  the  birds 

As  they  carry  their  little  ones  /  back  to  the  nest. 
I  alone  /  am  desolate 
Dreading  the  days  /  of  our  long  parting: 
My  grieving  heart's  /  settled  pain 
No  one  else  /  can  understand. 
There  is  a  saying  /  among  people 
"  Sorrow  makes  us  /  grow  old." 
Alas,  alas  /  for  my  white  hairs! 
All  too  early  /  they  have  come! 
Long  wailing,  /  long  sighing 
My  thoughts  are  fixed  on  my  sage  parent. 
They  say  the  good  /  live  long: 
Then  why  was  he  /  not  spared? 
[84] 


THE  CAMPAIGN  AGAINST  WU 

TWO   POEMS 

By  Wei  Wen-ti  [a.  d.  188-227] 

[1] 
My  charioteer  hastens  to  yoke  my  carriage, 
For  I  must  go  on  a  journey  far  away. 
"  Where  are  you  going  on  your  journey  far  away?  " 
To  the  land  of  Wu  where  my  enemies  are. 
But  I  must  ride  many  thousand  miles, 
Beyond  the  Eastern  Road  that  leads  to  Wu. 
Between  the  rivers  bitter  winds  blow. 
Swiftly  flow  the  waters  of  Huai  and  Ssii. 
I  weuit  to  take  a  skiff  and  cross  these  rivers, 
But  alas  for  me,  where  shall  I  find  a  boat? 
To  sit  idle  is  not  my  desire : 
Gladly  enough  would  I  go  to  my  country's  aid. 

[2] 
[He  abandons  the  campaign] 
In  the  North-west  there  is  a  floating  cloud 
Stretched  on  high,  like  a  chariot's  canvas-awning. 
Alas  that  I  was  born  in  these  times. 
To  be  blown  along  like  a  cloud  puff'ed  by  the  wind! 
It  has  blown  me  away  far  to  the  South-east, 
On  and  on  till  I  came  to  Wu-hui. 
Wu-hui  is  not  my  country: 
Why  should  I  go  on  staying  and  staying  here? 
I  will  give  it  up  and  never  speak  of  it  again, — 
This  being  abroad  and  always  living  in  dread. 
[85] 


THE  RUINS  OF  LO-YANG 

By  Ts'ao  Chih  [a.  d.  192-233],  third  son  of  Ts'ao  Ts'ao. 
He  was  a  great  favourite  with  his  father  till  he  made  a  mis- 
take in  a  campaign.  In  this  poem  he  returns  to  look  at  the 
ruins  of  Lo-yang,  where  he  used  to  live.  It  had  been  sacked 
by  Tung  Cho, 

I  CUMB  to  the  ridge  of  Pei  Mang  Mountain 
And  look  down  on  the  city  of  Lo-yang. 
In  Lo-yang  how  still  it  is! 
Palaces  and  houses  all  burnt  to  ashes. 
Walls  and  fences  all  broken  and  gaping, 
Thorns  and  brambles  shooting  up  to  the  sky. 
I  do  not  see  the  old  old-men: 
I  only  see  the  new  young  men. 
I  turn  aside,  for  the  straight  road  is  lost: 
The  fields  are  overgrown  and  will  never  be  ploughed  again. 
I  have  been  away  such  a  long  time 
That  I  do  not  know  which  street  is  which. 
How  sad  and  ugly  the  empty  moors  are! 
A  thousand  miles  without  the  smoke  of  a  chimney. 
I  think  of  the  house  I  lived  in  all  those  years: 
I  am  heart-tied  and  cannot  speak. 

The  above  poem  vaguely  recalls  a  famous  Anglo-Saxon 
fragment  which  I  will  make  intelligible  by  semi-translation: 

"  Wondrous  was  the  wall-stone. 
Weirdly  ^  broken; 

1  By  Fate. 
[86]. 


Burgh-Steads  hursten. 
Giants''  work  tumbleth. 
Roofs  are  wrenched. 
Towers  totter. 
Bereft  of  rune-gates. 
Smoke  is  on  the  plaster. 
Scarred  the  shower-burghs. 
Shorn  and  shattered. 
By  eld  under-eaten. 
Earth's  grip  haveth 
Wealders  ^  and  workmen,'* 

1  Rulers. 


[87] 


THE  COCK-FIGHT 

^  V>^  ^y  ^^'^^  Chih 

*Ju^OuR  wandering  eyes  are  sated  with  the  dancer's  skill, 
rv#  Our    ears    are    weary    with    the    sound    of    "  kung "    and 

"jh^ng."! 
Our  host  is  silent  and  sits  doing  nothing: 
All  the  guests  go  on  to  places  of  amusement. 

On  long  benches  the  sportsmen  sit  ranged 
Round  a  cleared  room,  watching  the  fighting-cocks. 
The  gallant  birds  are  all  in  battle-trim: 
They  raise  their  tails  and  flap  defiantly. 
Their  beating  wings  stir  the  calm  air : 
Their  angry  eyes  gleam  with  a  red  light. 
Where  their  beaks  have  struck,  the  fine  feathers  are  scat- 
tered: 
With  their  strong  talons  they  wound  again  and  again. 
Their  long  cries  enter  the  blue  clouds; 
Their  flapping  wings  tirelessly  beat  and  throb. 
"  Pray  God  the  lamp-oil  lasts  a  little  longer, 
Then  I  shall  not  leave  without  winning  the  match !  " 

1  Notes  of  the  scale. 


[88] 


A  VISION 

By  Ts'ao  Chih 

In  the  Nine  Provinces  there  is  not  room  enough: 

I  want  to  soar  high  among  the  clouds, 

And,  far  beyond  the  Eight  Limits  of  the  compass, 

Cast  my  gaze  across  the  unmeasured  void. 

I  will  wear  as  my  gown  the  red  mists  of  sunrise, 

And  as  my  skirt  the  white  fringes  of  the  clouds: 

My  canopy  —  the  dim  lustre  of  Space: 

My  chariot  —  six  dragons  mounting  heavenward : 

And  before  the  light  of  Time  has  shifted  a  pace 

Suddenly  stand  upon  the  World's  blue  rim. 

The  doors  of  HeaveiTswing  open. 
The  double  gates  shine  with  a  red  light. 
I  roam  and  linger  in  the  palace  of  Wen-ch'ang,^ 
I  climb  up  to  the  hall  of  T'ai-wei.^ 
The  Lord  God  lies  at  his  western  lattice : 
And  the  lesser  Spirits  are  together  in  the  eastern  gallery. 
They  wash  me  in  a  bath  of  rainbow-spray 
And  gird  me  with  a  belt  of  jasper  and  rubies. 
I  wander  at  my  ease  gathering  divine  herbs: 
I  bend  down  and  touch  the  scented  flowers. 
Wang-tzu  ^  gives  me  drugs  of  long-life 
And  Hsien-men  ^  hands  me  strange  potions. 
Byjhe  {)artaking  of  food  I  evade  the  rites  of  Death : 
My  span  is  extended  to  the  enjoyment  of  life  everlasting. 

1  Stars.      2  Immortals. 
[89] 


THE  CURTAIN  OF  THE  WEDDING  BED 

By  Liu  Hsiin's  wife  [third  century  A.  D.]. 

After  she  had  been  married  to  him  for  a  long  while.  Gen- 
eral Liu  Hsiin  sent  his  wife  back  to  her  home,  because  he  had 
fallen  in  love  with  a  girl  of  the  Ssu-ma  family. 

Flap,  flap,  you  curtain  in  front  of  our  bed! 

I  hung  you  there  to  screen  us  from  the  light  of  day. 

I  brought  you  with  me  when  I  left  my  father's  house; 

Now  I  am  taking  you  back  with  me  again. 

I  will  fold  you  up  and  lay  you  flat  in  your  "box. 

Curtain  —  shall  I  ever  take  you  out  again? 


[90] 


REGRET 

By  Yiian  Chi  [210-263] 

When  I  was  young  I  learnt  fencing 

And  was  better  at  it  than  Crooked  Castle.^ 

My  spirit  was  high  as  the  rolling  clouds 

And  my  fame  resounded  beyond  the  World. 

I  took  my  sword  to  the  desert  sands, 

I  drank  my  horse  at  the  Nine  Moors. 

My  flags  and  banners  flapped  in  the  wtnd, 

And  nothing  was  heard  but  the  song  of  my  drums. 


War  and  its  travels  have  made  me  sad, 
And  a  fierce  anger  burns  within  me: 
It's  thinking  of  how  I've  wasted  my  time 
That  makes  this  fury  tear  my  heart. 

^A  famous  general. 


[91] 


TAOIST  SONG 

By  Chi  K'ang  [a.  d.  223-262] 

I  WILL  cast  out  Wisdom  and  reject  Learning. 

My  thoughts  shall  wander  in  the  Great  Void  (bis) 

Always  repenting  of  wrongs  done 

Will  never  bring  my  heart  to  rest. 

I  cast  my  hook  in  a  single  stream; 

But  my  joy  is  as  though  I  possessed  a  Kingdom. 

I  loose  my  hair  and  go  singing; 

To  the  four  frontiers  men  join  in  my  refrain. 

This  is  the  purport  of  my  song: 

"  My  thoughts  shall  wander  in  the  Great  Void." 


[92] 


A  GENTLE  WIND 

By  Fu  Hsiian  [died  A.  D.  278} 

A  GENTLE  wind  fans  the  calm  night: 

A  bright  moon  shines  on  the  high  tower. 

A  voice  whispers,  but  no  one  answers  when  I  call : 

A  shadow  stirs,  but  no  one  comes  when  I  beckon, 

The  kitchen-man  brings  in  a  dish  of  lentils : 

Wine  is  there,  but  I  do  not  fill  my  cup. 

Contentment  with  poverty  is  Fortune's  best  gift: 

Riches  and  Honour  are  the  handmaids  of  Disaster. 

Though  gold  and  gems  by  the  world  are  sought  and  prized, 

To  me  they  seem  no  more  than  weeds  or  chaff. 


[93] 


WOMAN 

I  By  Fu  Hsilan 

How  sad  it  is  to  be  a  woman!  """^ 
Nothing  on  earth  is  held  so  cheap.  — -^ 
Boys  stand  leaning  at  the  door 
Like  Gods  fallen  out  of  Heaven. 
Their  hearts  brave  the  Four  Oceans, 
The  wind  and  dust  of  a  thousand  miles. 
1      No  one  is  glad  when  a  girl  is  born :    — 
\     By  her  the  family  sets  no  store. 

When  she  grows  up,  she  hides  in  her  room 
Afraid  to  look  a  man  in  the  face. 

No  one  cries  when  she  leaves  her  home  —  

Sudden  as  clouds  when  the  rain  stops. 
She.  bows  her  head  and  composes  her  face. 
Her  teeth  are  pressed  on  her  red  lips : 
She  bows  and  kneels  countless  times, 
if  She  must  humble  herself  even  to  the  servants.  — y 
His  love  is  distant  as  the  stars  in  Heaven, 
Yet  the  sunflower  bends  toward  the  sun. 
/Their  hearts  more  sundered  than  water  and  fire  — 
/^^A  hundred  evils  are  heaped  upon  her. 
f      Her  face  will  follow  the  years'  changes: 
\.      Her  lord  will  find  new  pleasures. 

^They  that  were  once  like  substance  and  shadow 
Are  now  as  far  as  Hu  from  Ch'in.^ 
Yet  Hu  and  Ch'in  shall  sooner  meet 
'ban  they  whose^  parting  is  like  Ts'an  and  Ch'en.^ 


1 


Two  lands.      ^Tyio  stars. 
[94]  X/  \ 


\^ 


c.^*>^  .  ^  ^ 


DAY  DREAMS 

By  Tso  Ssu  [third  century  A.  D.] 

When  I  was  young  I  played  with  a  soft  brush 

And  was  passionately  devoted  to  reading  all  sorts  of  books. 

In  prose  I  made  Chia  I  my  standard: 

In  verse  I  imitated  Ssu-ma  Hsiang-ju. 

But  then  the  arrows  began  singing  at  the  frontier. 

And  a  winged  summons  came  flying  to  the  City. 

Although  arms  were  not  my  profession, 

I  had  once  read  Jang-Chii's  war-book. 

I  shouted  aloud  and  my  cries  rent  the  air : 

I  felt  as  though  Tung  Wu  were  already  annihilated. 

The  scholar's  knife  cuts  best  at  its  first  use 

And  my  dreams  hurried  on  to  the  completion  of  my  plan. 

I  wanted  at  a  stroke  to  clear  the  Yang-tze  and  Hsiang, 

And  at  a  glance  to  quell  the  Tibetans  and  Hu. 

When  my  task  was  done,  I  should  not  accept  a  barony. 

But  refusing  with  a  bow,  retire  to  a  cottage  in  the  country. 


[95] 


THE  SCHOLAR  IN  THE  NARROW  STREET 

By  Tso  Ssu 

Flap,  flap,  the  captive  bird  in  the  cage 

Beating  its  wings  against  the  four  corners. 

Depressed,  depressed  the  scholar  in  the  narrow  street: 

Clasping  a  shadow,  he  dwells  in  an  empty  house. 

When  he  goes  out,  there  is  nowhere  for  him  to  go : 

Bunches  and  brambles  block  up  his  path. 

He  composes  a  memorial,  but  it  is  rejected  and  unread, 

He  is  left  stranded,  like  a  fish  in  a  dry  pond. 

Without  —  he  has  not  a  single  farthing  of  salary: 

Within  —  there  is  not  a  peck  of  grain  in  his  larder. 

His  relations  upbraid  him  for  his  lack  of  success: 

His  friends  and  callers  daily  decrease  in  number. 

Su  Ch'in  used  to  go  preaching  in  the  North 

And  Li  Ssu  sent  a  memorandum  to  the  West. 

I  once  hoped  to  pluck  the  fruits  of  life : 

But  now  alas,  they  are  all  withered  and  dry. 

Though  one  drinks  at  a  river,  one  cannot  drink  more  than  a 

bellyful; 
Enough  is  good,  but  there  is  no  use  in  satiety. 
The  bird  in  a  forest  can  perch  but  on  one  bough, 
And  this  should  be  the  wise  man's  pattern. 


[96] 


THE  DESECRATION  OF  THE  HAN  TOMBS 

By  Chang  Tsai  [third  century  A.  D.] 

At  Pei-mang  how  they  rise  to  Heaven, 

Those  high  mounds,  four  or  five  in  the  fields! 

What  men  lie  buried  under  these  tombs? 

All  of  them  were  Lords  of  the  Han  world. 

"  Kung  "  and  "  Wen  "  ^  gaze  across  at  each  other: 

The  Yiian  mound  is  all  grown  over  with  weeds. 

When  the  dynasty  was  falling,  tumult  and  disorder  arose, 

Thieves  and  robbers  roamed  like  wild  beasts. 

Of  earth  ^  they  have  carried  away  more  than  one  handful, 

They  have  gone  into  vaults  and  opened  the  secret  doors. 

Jewelled  scabbards  lie  twisted  and  defaced: 

The  stones  that  were  set  in  them,  thieves  have  carried  away, 

The  ancestral  temples  are  hummocks  in  the  ground: 

The  walls  that  went  round  them  are  all  levelled  flat. 

Over  everything  the  tangled  thorns  are  growing: 

A  herd-boy  pushes  through  them  up  the  path. 

Down  in  the  thorns  rabbits  have  made  their  burrows : 

The  weeds  and  thistles  will  never  be  cleared  away. 

Over  the  tombs  the  ploughshare  will  be  driven 

And  peasants  will  have  their  fields  and  orchards  there. 

They  that  were  once  lords  of  a  thousand  hosts 

1  Names  of  two  tombs. 

2  In  the  early  days  of  the  dynasty  a  man  stole  a  handful  of  earth 
from  the  imperial  tombs,  and  was  executed  by  the  police.  The 
emperor  was  furious  at  the  lightness  of  the  punishment. 

[97] 


Are  now  become  the  dust  of  the  hills  and  ridges. 

I  think  of  What  Yiin-men  ^  said 

And  am  sorely  grieved  at  the  thought  of  "  then  "  and  "  now." 

1  Yiin-men  said  to  Meng  Ch'ang-chiin  [died  279  B.C.],  "Does  it 
not  grieve  you  to  think  that  after  a  hundred  years  this  terrace  will  be 
cast  down  and  this  pond  cleared  away?  "    Meng  Ch'ang-chiin  wept 


[98] 


BEARER'S  SONG 

By  Miu  Hsi    [died  A. D.  245],     Cf,  the  "Han  Burial 
Songs"  p.  58. 

When  I  was  alive,  I  wandered  in  the  streets  of  the  Capital : 

Now  that  I  am  dead,  I  am  left  to  lie  in  the  fields. 

In  the  morning  I  drove  out  from  the  High  Hall : 

In  the  evening  I  lodged  beneath  the  Yellow  Springs. 

When  the  white  sun  had  sunk  in  the  Western  Chasm 

I  hung  up  my  chariot  and  rested  my  four  horses^"**^ 

Now,  even  the  mightj^MakeroiTAll 

Could  not  brmg  die  life  back  to  my  limbs. 

Shape  and  substance  day  by  day  will  vanish: 

Hair  and  teeth  will  gradually  fall  away. 

Forever  from  of  old  men  have  been  so : 

And  none  born  can  escape  this  thing. 

1  Hades. 


[99] 


THE  VALLEY  WIND 

By  Lu  Yiin  [fourth  century  A.  D.] 

Living  in  retirement  beyond  the  World, 

Silently  enjoying  isolation, 

I  pull  the  rope  of  my  door  tighter 

And  stuff  my  window  with  roots  and  ferns. 

My  spirit  is  tuned  to  the  Spring-season : 

At  the  fall  of  the  year  there  is  autumn  in  my  heart. 

Thus  imitating  cosmic  changes 

My  cottage  becomes  a  Universe. 


[100] 


CHAPTER  THREE 


POEMS  BY  T'AO  CH'IEN 

[1] 
Shady,  shady  the  wood  in  front  of  the  Hall : 
At  midsummer  full  of  calm  shadows. 
The  south  wind  follows  summer's  train : 
With  its  eddying  puffs  it  blows  open  my  coat. 
I  am  free  from  ties  and  can  live  a  life  of  retirement. 
When  I  rise  from  sleep,  I  play  with  books  and  harp. 
The  lettuce  in  the  garden  still  grows  moist: 
Of  last  year's  grain  there  is  always  plenty  left. 
Self-support  should  maintain  strict  limits: 
More  than  enough  is  not  what  I  want. 
I  grind  millet  and  make  good  wine: 
When  the  wine  is  heated,  I  pour  it  out  for  myself. 
My  little  children  are  playing  at  my  side, 
Learning  to  talk,  they  babble  unformed  sounds. 
These  things  have  made  me  happy  again 
And  I  forget  my  lost  cap  of  office. 
Distant,  distant  I  gaze  at  the  white  clouds : 
With  a  deep  yearning  I  think  of  the  Sages  of  Antiquity. 


[103] 


[2] 

In  the  quiet  of  the  morning  I  heard  a  knock  at  my  door: 

I  threw  on  my  clothes  and  opened  it  myself. 

I  asked  who  it  was  who  had  come  so  early  to  see  me: 

He  said  he  was  a  peasant,  coming  with  good  intent. 

He  brought  a  present  of  wine  and  rice-soup, 

Believing  that  I  had  fallen  on  evil  days. 

"  You  live  in  rags  under  a  thatched  roof 

And  seem  to  have  no  desire  for  a  better  lot. 

The  rest  of  mankind  have  all  the  same  ambitions: 

You,  too,  must  learn  to  wallow  in  their  mire." 

"  Old  man,  I  am  impressed  by  what  you  say. 

But  my  soul  is  not  fashioned  like  other  men's. 

To  drive  in  their  rut  I  might  perhaps  learn : 

To  be  untrue  to  myself  could  only  lead  to  muddle. 

Let  us  drink  and  enjoy  together  the  wine  you  have  brought; 

For  my  course  is  set  and  cannot  now  be  altered." 


[104] 


[3] 

A  LONG  time  ago 
I  went  on  a  journey, 
Right  to  the  corner 
Of  the  Eastern  Ocean, 
The  road  there 
Was  long  and  winding, 
And  stormy  waves 
Barred  my  path. 
What  made  me 
Go  this  way? 
Hunger  drove  me 
Into  the  World. 
I  tried  hard 
To  fill  my  belly: 
And  even  a  little 
Seemed  a  lot. 
But  this  was  clearly 
A  bad  bargain. 
So  I  went  home 
And  lived  in  idleness. 


[105] 


[4] 
SUBSTANCE,  SHADOW,  AND  SPIRIT 

High  and  low,  wise  and  simple,  all  busily  hoard  up  the 
moments  of  life.     How  greatly  they  err! 

Therefore  I  have  to  the  uttermost  exposed  the  bitterness  both 
of  Substance  and  Shadow,  and  have  made  Spirit  show 
how,  by  following  Nature,  we  may  dissolve  this  bitter- 
ness. 

Substance  speaks  to  Shadow: 
Heaven  and  Earth  exist  for  ever: 
Mountains  and  rivers  never  change. 
But  herbs  and  trees  in  perpetual  rotation 
Are  renovated  and  withered  by  the  dews  and  frosts: 
And  Man  the  wise,  Man  the  divine  — 
Shall  he  alone  escape  this  law? 
Fortuitously  appearing  for  a  moment  in  the  World 
He  suddenly  departs,  never  to  return. 
How  can  he  know  that  the  friends  he  has  left 
Are  missing  him  and  thinking  of  him? 
Only  the  things  that  he  used  remain; 
They  look  upon  them  and  their  tears  flow. 
Me  no  magical  arts  can  save. 
Though  you  may  hope  for  a  wizard's  aid. 
I  beg  you  listen  to  this  advice  — 
When  you  can  get  wine,  be  sure  to  drink  it. 
[106] 


Shadow  replies: 
There  is  no  way  to  preserve  life. 
Drugs  of  Immortality  are  instruments  of  folly. 
I  would  gladly  wander  in  Paradise, 
But  it  is  far  away  and  there  is  no  road. 
Since  the  day  that  I  was  joined  to  you 
We  have  shared  all  our  joys  and  pains. 
While  you  rested  in  the  shade,  I  left  you  a  while; 
But  till  the  end  we  shall  be  together. 
Our  joint  existence  is  impermanent: 
Sadly  together  we  shall  slip  away. 
That  when  the  body  decays  Fame  should  also  go 
Is  a  thought  unendurable,  burning  the  heart. 
Let  us  strive  and  labour  while  yet  we  may 
To  do  some  deed  that  men  will  praise. 
Wine  may  in  truth  dispel  our  sorrow, 
But  how  compare  it  with  lasting  Fame? 

Spirit  expounds: 
God  can  only  set  in  motion: 
He  cannot  control  the  things  he  has  made. 
Man,  the  second  of  the  Three  Orders, 
Owes  his  precedence  to  Me. 
Though  I  am  different  from  you. 
We  were  born  involved  in  one  another: 
Nor  by  any  means  can  we  escape 
The  intimate  sharing  of  good  and  ill. 
The  Three  Emperors  were  saintly  men. 
Yet  to-day  —  where  are  they? 
P'eng  ^  lived  to  a  great  age, 

^The  Chinese  Methuselah. 
[107] 


Yet  he  went  at  last,  when  he  longed  to  stay. 

And  late  or  soon,  all  go: 

Wise  and  simple  have  no  reprieve. 

Wine  may  bring  forgetfulness. 

But  does  it  not  hasten  old-age? 

If  you  set  your  hearts  on  noble  deeds. 

How  do  you  know  that  any  will  praise  you? 

By  all  this  thinking  you  do  Me  injury: 

You  had  better  go  where  Fate  leads  — 

Drift  on  the  Stream  of  Infinite  Flux, 

Without  joy,  without  fear: 

When  you  must  go  —  then  go, 

And  make  as  little  fuss  as  you  can. 


[108] 


[5] 

Chill  and  harsh  the  year  draws  to  its  close: 

In  my  cotton  dress  I  seek  sunlight  on  the  porch. 

In  the  southern  orchard  all  the  leaves  are  gone: 

In  the  north  garden  rotting  boughs  lie  heaped. 

I  empty  my  cup  and  drink  it  down  to  the  dregs: 

I  look  towards  the  kitchen,  but  no  smoke  rises. 

Poems  and  books  lie  piled  beside  my  chair: 

But  the  light  is  going  and  I  shall  not  have  time  to  read 

them. 
My  life  here  is  not  like  the  Agony  in  Ch'en,^ 
But  often  I  have  to  bear  bitter  reproaches. 
Let  me  then  remember,  to  calm  my  heart's  distress, 
That  the  Sages  of  old  were  often  in  like  case. 

^  Confucius  was  maltreated  in  Ch'en. 


[109] 


[6] 
BLAMING  SONS 

[an  apology  for  his  own  drunkenness] 

White  hair  covers  my  temples, 

I  am  wrinkled  and  seared  beyond  repair. 

And  though  I  have  got  five  sons, 

They  all  hate  paper  and  brush. 

A-shu  is  eighteen: 

For  laziness  there  is  none  like  him. 

A-hsiian  does  his  best, 

But  really  loathes  the  Fine  Arts. 

Yung-tuan  is  thirteen. 

But  does  not  know  "  six  "  from  "  seven."  ^ 

T'ung-tzu  in  his  ninth  year 

Is  only  concerned  with  things  to  eat. 

If  Heaven  treats  me  like  this. 

What  can  I  do  but  fill  my  cup? 

^  Written  in  Chinese  with  two  characters  very  easy  to  distinguish. 


[110] 


[7] 

I  BUILT  my  hut  in  a  zone  of  human  habitation, 

Yet  near  me  there  sounds  no  noise  of  horse  or  coach. 

Would  you  know  how  that  is  possible? 
A  heart  that  is  distant  creates  a  wilderness  round  it. 
I  pluck  chrysanthemums  under  the  eastern  hedge, 
Then  gaze  long  at  the  distant  summer  hills. 
The  mountain  air  is  fresh  at  the  dusk  of  day: 
The  flying  birds  two  by  two  return. 
In  these  things  there  lies  a  deep  meaning; 
Yet  when  we  would  express  it,  words  suddenly  fail  us. 


[Ill] 


[8] 
MOVING  HOUSE 

My  old  desire  to  live  in  the  Southern  Village 
Was  not  because  I  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  house. 
But  I  heard  it  was  a  place  of  simple-minded  men 
With  whom  it  were  a  joy  to  spend  the  mornings  and  even- 
ings. 
Many  years  I  had  longed  to  settle  here: 
Now  at  last  I  have  managed  to  move  house. 
I  do  not  mind  if  my  cottage  is  rather  small 
So  long  as  there's  room  enough  for  bed  and  mat. 
Often  and  often  the  neighbours  come  to  see  me 
And  with  brave  words  discuss  the  things  of  old. 
Rare  writings  we  read  together  and  praise: 
Doubtful  meanings  we  examine  together  and  settle. 


[112] 


[9] 
RETURNING  TO  THE  FIELDS 

When  I  was  young,  I  was  out  of  tune  with  the  herd: 

My  only  love  was  for  the  hills  and  mountains. 

Unwitting  I  fell  into  the  Web  of  the  World's  dust 

And  was  not  free  until  my  thirtieth  year. 

The  migrant  bird  longs  for  the  old  wood: 

The  fish  in  the  tank  thinks  of  its  native  pool. 

I  had  rescued  from  wildness  a  patch  of  the  Southern  Moor 

And,  still  rustic,  I  returned  to  field  and  garden. 

My  ground  covers  no  more  than  ten  acres: 

My  thatched  cottage  has  eight  or  nine  rooms. 

Elms  and  willows  cluster  by  the  eaves: 

Peach  trees  and  plum  trees  grow  before  the  hall. 

Hazy,  hazy  the  distant  hamlets  of  men. 

Steady  the  smoke  of  the  half -deserted  village, 

A  dog  barks  somewhere  in  the  deep  lanes, 

A  cock  crows  at  the  top  of  the  mulberry  tree. 

At  gate  and  courtyard  —  no  murmur  of  the  World's  dust: 

In  the  empty  rooms  —  leisure  and  deep  stillness. 

Long  I  lived  checked  by  the  bars  of  a  cage: 

Now  I  have  turned  again  to  Nature  and  Freedom. 


[113] 


[10] 

READING  THE  BOOK  OF  HILLS  AND  SEAS 

In  the  month  of  June  the  grass  grows  high 

And  round  my  cottage  thick-leaved  branches  sway. 

There  is  not  a  bird  but  delights  in  the  place  where  it  rests: 

And  I  too  —  love  my  thatched  cottage. 

I  have  done  my  ploughing: 

I  have  sown  my  seed. 

Again  I  have  time  to  sit  and  read  my  books. 

In  the  narrow  lane  there  are  no  deep  ruts: 

Often  my  friends'  carriages  turn  back. 

In  high  spirits  I  pour  out  my  spring  wine 

And  pluck  the  lettuce  growing  in  my  garden. 

A  gentle  rain  comes  stealing  up  from  the  east 

And  a  sweet  wind  bears  it  company. 

My  thoughts  float  idly  over  the  story  of  King  Chou 

My  eyes  wander  over  the  pictures  of  Hills  and  Seas. 

At  a  single  glance  I  survey  the  whole  Universe. 

He  will  never  be  happy,  whom  such  pleasures  fail  to  please! 


[114] 


[11] 

FLOOD 

The  lingering  clouds,  rolling,  rolling. 
And  the  settled  rain,  dripping,  dripping, 
In  the  Eight  Directions  —  the  same  dusk. 
The  level  lands  —  one  great  river. 
Wine  I  have,  wine  I  have: 
Idly  I  drink  at  the  eastern  window. 
Longingly  — - 1  think  of  my  friends. 
But  neither  boat  nor  carriage  comes. 


[115] 


Y 


[12] 
NEW  CORN 

Swiftly  the  years,  beyond  recall. 
Solemn  the  stillness  of  this  fair  morning. 
I  will  clothe  myself  in  spring-clothing 
And  visit  the  slopes  of  the  Eastern  Hill. 
By  the  mountain-stream  a  mist  hovers, 
Hovers  a  moment,  then  scatters. 
There  comes  a  wind  blowing  from  the  south 
That  brushes  the  fields  of  new  corn. 


[116] 


CHAPTER  FOUR 


INVITING  GUESTS 

By  Ch'eng-kung  Sui  [died  A.  D.  273] 

I  SENT  out  invitations 

To  summon  guests. 

I  collected  together 

All  my  friends. 

Loud  talk 

And  simple  feasting: 

Discussion  of  philosophy, 

Investigation  of  subtleties. 

Tongues  loosened 

And  minds  at  one. 

Hearts  refreshed 

By  discharge  of  emotion! 


[119] 


CLIMBING  A  MOUNTAIN 

By  Tao-yun  [circa  A.  D.  400],  wife  of  General  Wang  Ning' 

chih.     The  general  was  so  stupid  that  she  finally 

deserted  him. 

High  rises  the  Eastern  Peak 

Soaring  up  to  the  blue  sky. 

Among  the  rocks  —  an  empty  hollow, 

Secret,  still,  mysterious! 

Uncarved  and  unhewn. 

Screened  by  nature  with  a  roof  of  clouds. 

Times  and  Seasons,  what  things  are  you 

Bringing  to  my  life  ceaseless  change? 

I  will  lodge  forever  in  this  hollow 

Where  Springs  and  Autumns  unheeded  pass. 


[120] 


SAILING  HOMEWARD 

By  Chan  Fang-sheng  [fourth  century  A.  D.] 

Cliffs  that  rise  a  thousand  feet 

Without  a  break, 

Lake  that  stretches  a  hundred  miles 

Without  a  wave, 

Sands  that  are  white  through  all  the  year. 

Without  a  stain. 

Pine-tree  woods,  winter  and  summer 

Ever-green, 

Streams  that  for  ever  flow  and  flow 

Without  a  pause, 

Trees  that  for  twenty  thousand  years 

Your  vows  have  kept, 

You  have  suddenly  healed  the  pain  of  a  traveller's  heart, 

And  moved  his  brush  to  write  a  new  song. 


[121] 


FIVE  "TZU-YEH"  SONGS 

At  the  time  when  blossoms 

Fall  from  the  cherry-tree: 

On  a  day  when  yellow  birds 

Hovered  in  the  branches  — 

You  said  you  must  stop, 

Because  your  horse  was  tired: 

I  said  I  must  go, 

Because  my  silkworms  were  hungry. 

All  night  I  could  not  sleep 

Because  of  the  moonlight  on  my  bed, 

I  kept  on  hearing  a  voice  calling: 

Out  of  Nowhere,  Nothing  answered  "  yes." 

I  will  carry  my  coat  and  not  put  on  my  belt; 

With  unpainted  eyebrows  I  will  stand  at  the  front  window. 

My  tiresome  petticoat  keeps  on  flapping  about; 

If  it  opens  a  little,  I  shall  blame  the  spring  wind. 

I  heard  my  love  was  going  to  Yang-chou 

And  went  with  him  as  far  as  Ch'u-shan. 

For  a  moment  when  you  held  me  fast  in  your  outstretched 

arms 
I  thought  the  river  stood  still  and  did  not  flow. 

I  have  brought  my  pillow  and  am  lying  at  the  northern 

window. 
So  come  to  me  and  play  with  me  awhile. 
With  so  much  quarrelling  and  so  few  kisses 
How  long  do  you  think  our  love  can  last? 
[122] 


THE  LITTLE  LADY  OF  CH'ING-HSI 

[a  children's  song] 

Her  door  opened  on  the  white  water 
Close  by  the  side  of  the  timber  bridge; 
That's  where  the  little  lady  lived 
All  alone  without  a  lover. 


[123] 


PLUCKING  THE  RUSHES 

[a  boy  and  girl  are  sent  to  gather  rushes  for 
thatching] 

Anon,  [fourth  century] 

Green  rushes  with  red  shoots. 

Long  leaves  bending  to  the  wind  — 

You  and  I  in  the  same  boat 

Plucking  rushes  at  the  Five  Lakes. 

We  started  at  dawn  from  the  orchid-island: 

We  rested  under  the  elms  till  noon. 

You  and  I  plucking  rushes 

Had  not  plucked  a  handful  when  night  came! 


[124] 


BALLAD  OF  THE  WESTERN  ISLAND  IN  THE 
NORTH  COUNTRY 

"  Seeing  the  plum-tree  I  thought  of  the  Western  Island 

And  I  plucked  a  branch  to  send  to  the  North  Country. 

I  put  on  my  dress  of  apricot-yellow  silk 

And  bound  up  my  hair  black  as  the  crow's  wing. 

But  which  is  the  road  that  leads  to  the  Western  Island? 

I'll  ask  the  man  at  the  ferry  by  the  Bridge  of  Boats. 

But  the  sun  is  sinking  and  the  orioles  flying  home: 

And  the  wind  is  blowing  and  sighing  in  the  walnut-tree. 

I'll  stand  under  the  tree  just  beside  the  gate: 

I'll  stand  by  the  door  and  show  off  my  enameled  hair-pins. 

She's  opened  the  gate,  but  her  lover  has  not  come: 

She's  gone  out  at  the  gate  to  pluck  red  lotus. 

As  she  plucks  the  lotus  on  the  southern  dyke  in  autumn, 

The  lotus  flower  stands  higher  than  a  man's  head. 

She  bends  down  and  plays  with  the  lotus  seeds, 

The  lotus  seeds  are  green  like  the  lake-water. 

She  gathers  the  flowers  and  puts  them  into  her  gown  — 

The  lotus-bud  that  is  red  all  through. 

She  thinks  of  her  lover,  her  lover  that  does  not  come: 

She  looks  up  and  sees  the  wild  geese  flying  — 

The  Western  Island  is  full  of  wild  geese. 

To  look  for  her  lover  she  climbs  the  Blue  Tower. 

The  tower  is  high:  she  looks,  but  cannot  see: 

All  day  she  leans  on  the  balcony  rails. 

The  rail  is  twisted  into  a  twelve-fold  pattern. 

[125] 


She  lets  fall  her  hand  white  like  the  colour  of  jade. 
She  rolls  up  the  awning,  she  sees  the  wide  sky, 
And  the  sea-water  waving  its  vacant  blue. 
"The  sea  shall  carry  my  dreams  far  away, 
So  that  you  shall  be  sorry  at  last  for  my  sorrow. 
If  the  South  wind  only  knew  my  thoughts 
It  would  blow  my  dreams  till  they  got  to  the  Western 
Island." 


[126] 


SONG 

By  Tsang  Chih  [sixth  century] 

I  WAS  brought  up  under  the  Stone  Castle: 
My  window  opened  on  to  the  castle  tower. 
In  the  castle  were  beautiful  young  men 
Who  waved  to  me  as  they  went  in  and  out. 


[127] 


SONG  OF  THE  MEN  OF  CHIN-LING 

[marching  back  into  the  capital] 

By  Hsieh  T'iao  [fifth  century  A.  D.] 

Chiang-nan  is  a  glorious  and  beautiful  land, 

And  Chin-ling  an  exalted  and  kingly  province! 

The  green  canals  of  the  city  stretch  on  and  on 

And  its  high  towers  stretch  up  and  up. 

Flying  gables  lean  over  the  bridle-road: 

Drooping  willows  cover  the  Royal  Aqueduct. 

Shrill  flutes  sing  by  the  coach's  awning, 

And  reiterated  drums  bang  near  its  painted  wheels. 

The  names  of  the  deserving  shall  be  carved  on  the  Cloud 

Terrace.^ 
And  for  those  who  have  done  valiantly  rich  reward  awaits. 

iThe  Record  Office. 


[128] 


THE  SCHOLAR  RECRUIT 

By  Pao  Chao  [died  A.  D.  466] 
Now  late 

I  follow  Time's  Necessity:  ^ 
Mounting  a  barricade  I  pacify  remote  tribes. 
Discarding  my  sash  I  don  a  coat  of  rhinoceros-skin; 
Rolling  up  my  skirts  I  shoulder  a  black  bow. 
Even  at  the  very  start  my  strength  fails: 
What  will  become  of  me  before  it's  all  over? 

i/.e..  "enlist." 


[129] 


THE  RED  HILLS 

By  Pao  Chao 

Red  hills  lie  athwart  us  as  a  menace  in  the  west, 
And  fiery  mountains  glare  terrible  in  the  south. 
The  body  bums,  the  head  aches  and  throbs: 
If  a  bird  light  here,  its  soul  forthwith  departs. 
Warm  springs 
Pour  from  cloudy  pools 
And  hot  smoke  issues  between  the  rocks. 
The  sun  and  moon  are  perpetually  obscured: 
The  rain  and  dew  never  stay  dry. 
There  are  red  serpents  a  hundred  feet  long, 
And  black  snakes  ten  girths  round. 
The  sand-spitters  shoot  their  poison  at  the  sunbeams: 
The  flying  insects  are  ill  with  the  shifting  glare. 
The  hungry  monkeys  dare  not  come  down  to  eat: 
The  morning  birds  dare  not  set  out  to  fly. 
At  the  Ching  river  many  die  of  poison: 
Crossing  the  Lu  one  is  lucky  if  one  is  only  ill. 
Our  living  feet  walk  on  dead  ground: 
Our  high  wills  surmount  the  snares  of  Fate. 
The  Spear-boat  General  ^  got  but  little  honour: 
The  Wave-subduer  ^  met  with  scant  reward. 
If  our  Prince  still  grudges  the  things  that  are  easy  to  give,* 
Can  he  hope  that  his  soldiers  will  give  what  is  hardest  to 
give?  * 

1  Hou  Yen  (first  century  B.C.).  3 Rewards  and  titles. 

2  Ma  Yiian  (first  century  a.  d.).  *Life. 
[130] 


DREAMING  OF  A  DEAD  LADY 

"  I  HEARD  at  night  your  long  sighs 

And  knew  that  you  were  thinking  of  me." 

As  she  spoke,  the  doors  of  Heaven  opened 

And  our  souls  conversed  and  I  saw  her  face. 

She  set  me  a  pillow  to  rest  on 

And  she  brought  me  meat  and  drink. 


I  stood  beside  her  where  she  lay, 
But  suddenly  woke  and  she  was  not  there: 
And  none  knew  how  my  soul  was  torn. 
How  the  tears  fell  surging  over  my  breast. 


[131] 


THE  LIBERATOR 

A  POUTICAL  ALLEGORY 

By  Wu-ti,  emperor  of  the  Liang  dynasty  [A.  D.  464-549] 

In  the  high  trees  —  many  doleful  winds: 

The  ocean  waters  —  lashed  into  waves. 

If  the  sharp  sword  be  not  in  your  hand, 

How  can  you  hope  your  friends  will  remain  many? 

Do  you  not  see  that  sparrow  on  the  fence? 

Seeing  the  hawk  it  casts  itself  into  the  snare. 

The  fowler  to  catch  the  sparrow  is  delighted: 

The  Young  Man  to  see  the  sparrow  is  grieved. 

He  takes  his  sword  and  cuts  through  the  netting: 

The  yellow  sparrow  flies  away,  away. 

Away,  away,  up  to  the  blue  sky 

And  down  again  to  thank  the  Young  Man. 


[132] 


LOYANG 

By  the  Emperor  Ch'ien  Wen-ti  [sixth  century] 

A  BEAUTIFUL  place  is  the  town  of  Lo-yang: 

The  big  streets  are  full  of  spring  light. 

The  lads  go  driving  out  with  harps  in  their  hands: 

The  mulberry  girls  go  out  to  the  fields  with  their  baskets. 

Golden  whips  glint  at  the  horses'  flanks, 

Gauze  sleeves  brush  the  green  boughs. 

Racing  dawn,  the  carriages  come  home, — 

And  the  girls  with  their  high  baskets  full  of  fruit. 


[133] 


WINTER  NIGHT 

My  bed  is  so  empty  that  I  keep  on  waking  up: 
As  the  cold  increases,  the  night-wind  begins  to  blow. 
It  rustles  the  curtains,  making  a  noise  like  the  sea: 
Oh  that  those  were  waves  which  could  carry  me  back  to 
you! 


[134] 


THE  REJECTED  WIFE 

By  Yuan-ti  [508-554],     See  page  29, 

Entering  the  Hall,  she  meets  the  new  wife: 
Leaving  the  gate,  she  runs  into  her  former  husband. 
Words  stick:  she  does  not  manage  to  say  anything: 
She  presses  her  hands  together  and  hesitates. 
Agitates  moon-like  fan  —  sheds  pearl-like  tears  — 
Realizes  she  loves  him  just  as  much  as  ever: 
That  her  present  pain  will  never  come  to  an  end. 


[135] 


PEOPLE  HIDE  THEIR  LOVE 

By  Wu-ti 
Who  says 

That  it's  by  my  desire, 

This  separation,  this  living  so  far  from  you? 
My  dress  still  smells  of  the  lavender  you  gave: 
My  hand  still  holds  the  letter  that  you  sent. 
Round  my  waist  I  wear  a  double  sash: 
I  dream  that  it  binds  us  both  with  a  same-heart  knot. 
Did  not  you  know  that  people  hide  their  love, 
Like  the  flower  that  seems  too  precious  to  be  picked? 


[136] 


THE  FERRY 

By  the  Emperor  Ch'ien  Wen-ti,  of  the  Liang  dynasty,  who 
reigned  during  the  year  A.  D.  500. 

Of  marsh-mallows  my  boat  is  made, 

The  ropes  are  lily-roots. 

The  pole-star  is  athwart  the  sky: 

The  moon  sinks  low. 

It's  at  the  ferry  I'm  plucking  lilies, 

But  it  might  be  the  Yellow  River  — 

So  afraid  you  seem  of  the  wind  and  waves, 

So  long  you  tarry  at  the  crossing.^ 

1 A  lady  is  waiting  for  her  lover  at  the  ferry  which  crosses  a  small 
stream.  When  he  does  not  come,  she  bitterly  suggests  that  he  is  as 
afraid  of  the  little  stream  as  though  it  were  the  Yellow  River,  the 
largest  river  in  China. 


[137] 


THE  WATERS  OF  LUNG-T'OU 

[the  north-west  frontier] 

By  Hsii  Ling  [a.  d.  507-583] 

The  road  that  I  came  by  mounts  eight  thousand  feet: 
The  river  that  I  crossed  hangs  a  hundred  fathoms. 
The  brambles  so  thick  that  in  summer  one  cannot  pass! 
The  snow  so  high  that  in  winter  one  cannot  climb ! 
With  branches  that  interlace  Lung  Valley  is  dark; 
Against  cliflfs  that  tower  one's  voice  beats  and  echoes. 
I  turn  my  head,  and  it  seems  only  a  dream 
That  I  ever  lived  in  the  streets  of  Hsien-yang. 


[138] 


FLOWERS  AND  MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  SPRING 
RIVER 

By  Yang'ti  [605-617],  emperor  of  the  Sui  dynasty 

The  evening  river  is  level  and  motionless  — 

The  spring  colours  just  open  to  their  full. 

Suddenly  a  wave  carries  the  moon  *  away 

And  the  tidal  water  comes  with  its  freight  of  stars/ 

^  J.e.y  the  reflection  in  the  water. 


[139] 


TCHIREK  SONG 

Altun  [486-566  A.  D.]  was  a  Tartar  employed  by  the 
Chinese  in  drilling  their  troops  ^^  after  the  manner  of  the 
Huns"  He  could  not  read  or  write.  The  "  Yo  Fu  Kuang 
TH  "  says :  Kao  Huan  attacked  Pi,  king  of  Chou,  but  lost 
nearly  half  his  men.  Kao  Huan  fell  ill  of  sadness  and  Pi, 
to  taunt  him,  sent  out  a  proclamation,  which  said: 

Kao  Huan,  that  son  of  a  mouse 
Dared  to  attack  King  Pi. 
But  at  the  first  stroke  of  sword  and  bow, 
,The  aggressors  plot  recoiled  on  himself. 

When  this  reached  Kao  Huan's  ears,  he  sat  up  in  bed  and 
tried  to  comfort  his  officers.  All  the  nobles  were  summoned 
to  his  room,  and  Altun  was  asked  to  sing  them  a  song  about 
Tchirek,  his  native  land.     He  sang: 

TcHlREK  River 

Lies  under  the  Dark  Mountains: 

Where  the  sky  is  like  the  sides  of  a  tent 

Stretched  down  over  the  Great  Steppe. 

The  sky  is  gray,  gray: 

And  the  steppe  wide,  wide: 

Over  grass  that  the  wind  has  battered  low 

Sheep  and  oxen  roam. 

[140] 


"  Altun  "  means  "  gold  "  in  Tartar.  No  one  could  teach 
him  to  write  the  Chinese  character  for  gold,  till  at  last  some 
one  said:  "Draw  the  roof  of  your  house  and  then  put  a 
few  strokes  underneath/^  He  thus  learnt,  in  a  rough 
fashion,  to  write  his  own  name. 


[141] 


CHAPTER  FIVE 


BUSINESS  MEN 

By  Ch'en  Tzu-ang  [a.  d.  656-698] 

Business  men  boast  of  their  skill  and  cunning 
But  in  philosophy  they  are  like  little  children. 
Bragging  to  each  other  of  successful  depredations 
They  neglect  to  consider  the  ultimate  fate  of  the  body. 
What  should  they  know  of  the  Master  of  Dark  Truth 
Who  saw  the  wide  world  in  a  jade  cup, 
By  illumined  conception  got  clear  of  Heaven  and  Earth: 
On  the  chariot  of  Mutation  entered  the  Gate  of  Immutabil- 
ity? 


[145] 


TELL  ME  NOW 

By  Wang  Chi  [circa  A.  d.  lOO'i 

"  Tell  me  now,  what  should  a  man  want 

But  to  sit  alone,  sipping  his  cup  of  wine?  " 

I  should  like  to  have  visitors  come  and  discuss  philosophy 

And  not  to  have  the  tax-collector  coming  to  collect  taxes: 

My  three  sons  married  into  good  families 

And  my  five  daughters  wedded  to  steady  husbands. 

Then  I  could  jog  through  a  happy  five-score  years 

And,  at  the  end,  need  no  Paradise. 


[146] 


ON  GOING  TO  A  TAVERN 

By  Wang  Chi 

These  days,  continually  fuddled  with  drink, 
I  fail  to  satisfy  the  appetites  of  the  soul. 
But  seeing  men  all  behaving  like  drunkards,^ 
How  can  I  alone  remain  sober? 

1  Written  during  the  war  which  preceded  the  T'ang  dynasty. 


[147] 


STONF  FISH  LAKE 

By  Yuan  Chieh  [flourished  circa  A.  D.  740-770], 
Yiian  Chieh,  a  contemporay  of  Li  Po,  has  not  hitherto 
been   mentioned   in   any   European   hook.     "  His   subjects 
were  always  original,   but  his  poems  are  seldom  worth 
quoting,"  is  a  Chinese  opinion  of  him, 

I  LOVED  you  dearly,  Stone  Fish  Lake, 

With  your  rock-island  shaped  like  a  swimming  fish! 

On  the  fish's  back  is  the  Wine-cup  Hollow 

And  round  the  fish, —  the  flowing  waters  of  the  Lake. 

The  boys  on  the  shore  sent  little  wooden  ships. 

Each  made  to  carry  a  single  cup  of  wine. 

The  island-drinkers  emptied  the  liquor-boats 

And  set  their  sails  and  sent  them  back  for  more. 

On  the  shores  of  the  Lake  were  jutting  slabs  of  rock 

And  under  the  rocks  there  flowed  an  icy  stream. 

Heated  with  wine  to  rinse  our  mouths  and  hands 

In  those  cold  waters  was  a  joy  beyond  compare! 

Of  gold  and  jewels  I  have  not  any  need; 

For  Caps  and  Coaches  I  do  not  care  at  all. 

But  I  wish  I  could  sit  on  the  rocky  banks  of  the  Lake 

For  ever  and  ever  staring  at  the  Stone  Fish.  ' 


[14S] 


CIVILIZATION 

By  Yiian  Chieh 

To  the  south-east  —  three  thousand  leagues  — 

The  Yiian  and  Hsiang  form  into  a  mighty  lake. 

Above  the  lake  are  deep  mountain  valleys, 

And  men  dwelling  whose  hearts  are  without  guile. 

Gay  like  children,  they  swarm  to  the  tops  of  the  trees; 

And  run  to  the  water  to  catch  bream  and  trout. 

Their  pleasures  are  the  same  as  those  of  beasts  and  birds; 

They  put  no  restraint  either  on  body  or  mind. 

Far  I  have  wandered  throughout  the  Nine  Lands; 

Wherever  I  went  such  manners  had  disappeared. 

I  find  myself  standing  and  wondering,  perplexed, 

Whether  Saints  and  Sages  have  really  done  us  good. 


[149] 


A  PROTEST  IN  THE  SIXTH  YEAR  OF 
CH'IEN  FU  [A.  D.  879] 

By  Ts'ao  Sung  [flourished  circa  A.  D.  870-920] 

The  hills  and  rivers  of  the  lowland  country 

You  have  made  your  battle-ground. 
How  do  you  suppose  the  people  who  live  there 

Will  procure  "  firewood  and  hay  "?  ^ 
Do  not  let  me  hear  you  talking  together 

About  titles  and  promotions; 
For  a  single  general's  reputation 

Is  made  out  of  ten  thousand  corpses. 

iThe  necessaries  of  life. 


[150] 


ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  HIS  SON 

By  Su  Tung-p'o  [a.  d.  1036-1101] 

Families,  when  a  child  is  born 
Want  it  to  be  intelligent. 
I,  through  intelligence, 
Having  wrecked  my  whole  life. 
Only  hope  the  baby  will  prove 
Ignorant  and  stupid. 
Then  he  will  crown  a  tranquil  life 
By  becoming  a  Cabinet  Minister. 


[151] 


THE  PEDLAR  OF  SPELLS 

By  Lu  Yu  [A.  D.  1125-1209] 

An  old  man  selling  charms  in  a  cranny  of  the  town  wall. 
He  writes  out  spells  to  bless  the  silkworms  and  spells  to 

protect  the  corn. 
With  the  money  he  gets  each  day  he  only  buys  wine. 
But  he  does  not  worry  when  his  legs  get  wobbly, 
For  he  has  a  boy  to  lean  on. 


[152] 


BOATING  IN  AUTUMN 

By  Lu  Yu 

Away  and  away  I  sail  in  my  light  boat; 

My  heart  leaps  with  a  great  gust  of  joy. 

Through  the  leafless  branches  I  see  the  temple  in  the  wood; 

Over  the  dwindling  stream  the  stone  bridge  towers. 

Down  the  grassy  lanes  sheep  and  oxen  pass; 

In  the  misty  village  cranes  and  magpies  cry. 


Back  in  my  home  I  drink  a  cup  of  wine 

And  need  not  fear  the  greed  ^  of  the  evening  wind. 


1  Which  "  eats  "  men. 


[153] 


THE  HERD-BOY 

By  Lu  Yu 

In  the  southern  village  the  boy  who  minds  the  ox 
With  his  naked  feet  stands  on  the  ox's  back. 
Through  the  hole  in  his  coat  the  river  wind  blows; 
Through  his  broken  hat  the  mountain  rain  pours. 
On  the  long  dyke  he  seemed  to  be  far  away; 
In  the  narrow  lane  suddenly  we  were  face  to  face. 


The  boy  is  home  and  the  ox  is  back  in  its  stall; 
And  a  dark  smoke  oozes  through  the  thatched  roof. 


[154] 


HOW  I  SAILED  ON  THE  LAKE  TILL  I  CAME  TO 
THE  EASTERN  STREAM 

By  Lu  Yu 

Of  Spring  water, —  thirty  or  forty  miles : 

In  the  evening  sunlight, —  three  or  four  houses. 

Youths  and  boys  minding  geese  and  ducks: 

Women  and  girls  tending  mulberries  and  hemp. 

The  place, —  remote:  their  coats  and  scarves  old: 

The  year, —  fruitful :  their  talk  and  laughter  gay. 

The  old  wanderer  moors  his  flat  boat 

And  staggers  up  the  bank  to  pluck  wistaria  flowers. 


[155] 


A  SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY  CHINESE  POEM 

Ch^en  TzU'lung  was  horn  in  1607,  He  became  a  soldier , 
and  in  1637  defeated  the  rebel,  Hsii  Tu,  After  the  suicide 
of  the  last  Ming  emperor,  he  offered  his  services  to  the 
Ming  princes  who  were  still  opposing  the  Manchus.  In 
1647  he  headed  a  conspiracy  to  place  the  Ming  prince  Lu 
on  the  throne.  His  plans  were  discovered  and  he  was  ar- 
rested by  Manchu  troops.  Escaping  their  vigilance  for  a 
moment,  he  leapt  into  a  river  and  was  drowned. 

The  following  song  describes  the  flight  of  a  husband  and 
wife  from  a  town  menaced  by  the  advancing  Manchus. 
They  find  the  whole  country-side  deserted. 


THE  LITTLE  CART 

The  little  cart  jolting  and  banging  through  the  yellow  haze 

of  dusk. 
The  man  pushing  behind:  the  woman  pulling  in  front. 
They  have  left  the  city  and  do  not  know  where  to  go. 
"Green,  green,  those  elm-tree  leaves:   they  will  cure  my 

hunger, 
If  only  we  could  find  some  quiet  place  and  sup  on  them 

together." 


[156] 


The  wind  has  flattened  the  yellow  mother-wort: 
Above  it  in  the  distance  they  see  the  walls  of  a  house. 
"  There  surely  must  be  people  living  who'll  give  you  some- 
thing to  eat." 
They  tap  at  the  door,  but  no  one  comes:  they  look  in,  but 

the  kitchen  is  empty. 
They  stand  hesitating  in  the  lonely  road  and  their  tears  fall 
like  rain. 


[157] 


PART  II 

Po  Chu-i 

[a.d.  772-846] 


INTRODUCTION 

Po  Chii-i  was  born  at  T'ai-yiian  in  Shansi.  Most  of 
his  childhood  was  spent  at  Jung-yang  in  Honan.  His 
father  was  a  second-class  Assistant  Department  Magis- 
trate. He  tells  us  that  his  family  was  poor  and  often  in 
diflBculties. 

He  seems  to  have  settled  permanently  at  Ch'ang-an  in 
801.  This  town,  lying  near  the  north-west  frontier,  was 
the  political  capital  of  the  Empire.  In  its  situation  it  some- 
what resembled  Madrid.  Lo-yang,  the  Eastern  city,  owing 
to  its  milder  climate  and  more  accessible  position,  became, 
like  Seville  in  Spain,  a  kind  of  social  capital. 

Soon  afterwards  he  met  Yuan  Chen,  then  aged  twenty- 
two,  who  was  destined  to  play  so  important  a  part  in  his 
life.  Five  years  later,  during  a  temporary  absence  from 
the  city,  he  addressed  to  Yiian  the  following  poem: 

Since  I  left  my  home  to  seek  official  state 
Seven  years  I  have  lived  in  Ch^ang-an. 
What  have  I  gained?     Only  you,  Yiian; 
So  hard  it  is  to  hind  friendships  fast. 

We  have  roamed  on  horseback  under  the  flowering  trees; 
We  have  walked  in  the  snow  and  warmed  our  hearts  with 
wine. 
We  have  met  and  parted  at  the  Western  Gate 
And  neither  of  us  bothered  to  put  on  Cap  or  Belt, 
We  did  not  go  up  together  for  Examination; 
[161] 


We  were  not  serving  in  the  same  Department  of  State. 
The  bond  that  joined  us  lay  deeper  than  outward  things; 
The  rivers  of  our  souls  spring  from  the  same  well! 

Of  Yiian's  appearance  at  this  time  we  may  guess  some- 
thing from  a  picture  which  still  survives  in  copy;  it  shows 
him,  a  youthful  and  elegant  figure,  visiting  his  cousin  Ts'ui 
Ying-ying,  who  was  a  lady-in-waiting  at  Court.^  At  this 
period  of  his  life  Po  made  friends  with  difficulty,  not  being, 
as  he  tells  us  "  a  master  of  such  accomplishments  as 
caligraphy,  painting,  chess  or  gambling,  which  tend  to 
bring  men  together  in  pleasurable  intercourse."  Two 
older  men,  T'ang  Ch'ii  and  Teng  Fang,  liked  his  poetry 
and  showed  him  much  kindness;  another,  the  politician 
K'ung  T'an,  won  his  admiration  on  public  grounds.  But 
all  three  died  soon  after  he  got  to  know  them.  Later  he 
made  three  friends  with  whom  he  maintained  a  lifelong 
intimacy:  the  poet  Liu  Yii-hsi  (called  Meng-te),  and  the  two 
officials  Li  Chien  and  Ts'ui  Hsuan-liang.  In  805  Yiian  Chen 
was  banished  for  provocative  behaviour  towards  a  high 
official.  The  T'ang  History  relates  the  episode  as  follows: 
"Yiian  was  staying  the  night  at  the  Fu-shui  Inn;  just  as 
he  was  preparing  to  go  to  sleep  in  the  Main  Hall,  the  court- 
official  Li  Shih-yiian  also  arrived.  Yiian  Chen  should  have 
o£fered  to  withdraw  from  the  Hall.  He  did  not  do  so  and 
a  scuffle  ensued.  Yiian,  locked  out  of  the  building,  took 
off  his  shoes  and  stole  roimd  to  the  back,  hoping  to  find 
another  way  in.  Liu  followed  with  a  whip  and  struck  him 
across  the  face." 

1  Yiian  has  told  the  story  of  this  intrigue  in  an  autobiographical 
fragment,  of  which  I  hope  to  publish  a  translation.    Upon  this  frag- 

[162] 


The  separation  was  a  heavy  blow  to  Po  Chii-i.  In  a 
poem  called  "  Climbing  Alone  to  the  Lo-yu  Gardens  "  he 
says: 

/  look  down  on  the  Twelve  City  Streets :  — 

Red  dust  flanked  by  green  trees! 

Coaches  and  horsemen  alone  fill  my  eyes; 

I  do  not  see  whom  my  heart  longs  to  see, 

K'ung  Tan  has  died  at  Lo-yang; 

Yiian  Chen  is  banished  to  Ching-men, 

Of  all  that  walk  on  the  North-South  Road 

There  is  not  one  that  I  care  for  more  than  the  rest! 

In  804  on  the  death  of  his  father,  and  again  in  811  on 
the  death  of  his  mother,  he  spent  periods  of  retirement  on 
the  Wei  river  near  Ch'ang-an.  It  was  during  the  second  of 
these  periods  that  he  wrote  the  long  poem  [260  lines]  called 
"Visiting  the  Wuchen  Temple."  Soon  after  his  return  to 
Ch'ang-an,  which  took  place  in  the  winter  of  814,  he  fell 
into  official  disfavour.  In  two  long  memorials  entitled 
"  On  Stopping  the  War,"  he  had  criticized  the  handling  of 
a  campaign  against  an  unimportant  tribe  of  Tartars,  which 
he  considered  had  been  unduly  prolonged.  In  a  series  of 
poems  he  had  satirized  the  rapacity  of  minor  officials  and 
called  attention  to  the  intolerable  suiBFerings  of  the  masses. 

His  enemies  soon  found  an  opportunity  of  silencing  him. 
In  814  the  Prime  Minister,  Wu  Yiian-heng,  was  assassi- 
nated in  broad  daylight  by  an  agent  of  the  revolutionary 
leader  Wu  Yiian-chi.  Po,  in  a  memorial  to  the  Throne, 
pointed  out  the  urgency  of  remedying  the  prevailing  dis- 

ment  is  founded  the  famous  fourteenth-century  drama,  "  The  Western 

Pavilion." 

[163] 


content.  He  held  at  this  time  the  post  of  assistant  secre- 
tary to  the  Princes'  tutor.  He  should  not  have  criticized 
the  Prime  Minister  (for  being  murdered!)  until  the  ofl&cial 
Censors  had  spoken,  for  he  held  a  Palace  appointment 
which  did  not  carry  with  it  the  right  of  censorship. 

His  opponents  also  raked  up  another  charge.  His  mother 
had  met  her  death  by  falling  into  a  well  while  looking 
at  flowers.  Chii-i  had  written  two  poems  entitled  "  In 
Praise  of  Flowers  "  and  "  The  New  Well."  It  was  claimed 
that  by  choosing  such  subjects  he  had  infringed  the  laws 
of  Filial  Piety. 

He  was  banished  to  Kiukiang  [then  called  Hsiin-yang] 
with  the  rank  of  Sub-Prefect.  After  three  years  he  was 
given  the  Governorship  of  Chung-chou,  a  remote  place  in 
Ssech'uan.  On  the  way  up  the  Yangtze  he  met  Yiian  Chen 
after  three  years  of  separation.  They  spent  a  few  days  to- 
gether at  I-ch'ang,  exploring  the  rock-caves  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 

Chung-chou  is  noted  for  its  "  many  flowers  and  exotic 
trees,"  which  were  a  constant  delight  to  its  new  Governor. 
In  the  winter  of  819  he  was  recalled  to  the  capital  and 
became  a  second-class  Assistant  Secretary.  About  this 
time  Yiian  Chen  also  returned  to  the  city. 

In  821  the  Emperor  Mou  Tsung  came  to  the  throne. 
His  arbitrary  mis-government  soon  caused  a  fresh  rising 
in  the  north-west.  Chii-i  remonstrated  in  a  series  of 
memorials  and  was  again  removed  from  the  capital  —  this 
time  to  be  Governor  of  the  important  town  of  Hangchow. 
Yiian  now  held  a  judicial  post  at  Ningpo  and  the  two  were 
occasionally  able  to  meet. 

In  824  his  Governorship  expired  and  he  lived  [with  the 
nominal  rank  of  Imperial  Tutor]  at  the  village  of  Li-tao-li, 
[164] 


near  Lo-yang.  It  was  here  that  he  took  into  his  household 
two  girls,  Fan-su  and  Man-tzu,  whose  singing  and  dancing 
enlivened  his  retreat.  He  also  brought  with  him  from 
Hangchow  a  famous  "  Indian  rock,"  and  two  cranes  of 
the  celebrated  "  Hua-t'ing  "  breed.  Other  amenities  of  his 
life  at  this  time  were  a  recipe  for  making  sweet  wine,  the 
gift  of  Ch'en  Hao-hsien ;  a  harp-melody  taught  him  by  Ts'ui 
Hsuan-liang;  and  a  song  called  "Autumn  Thoughts," 
brought  by  the  concubine  of  a  visitor  from  Ssech'uan. 

In  825  he  became  Governor  of  Soochow.  Here  at  the 
age  of  fifty-three  he  enjoyed  a  kind  of  second  youth,  much 
more  sociable  than  that  of  thirty  years  before;  we  find  him 
endlessly  picnicking  and  feasting.  But  after  two  years  ill- 
ness obliged  him  to  retire. 

He  next  held  various  posts  at  the  capital,  but  again  fell 
ill,  and  in  829  settled  at  Lo-yang  as  Governor  of  the 
Province  of  Honan.  Here  his  first  son,  A-ts'ui,  was  born, 
but  died  in  the  following  year. 

In  831  Yiian  Chen  also  died. 

Henceforth,  though  for  thirteen  years  he  continued  to  hold 
nominal  posts,  he  lived  a  life  of  retirement.  In  832  he 
repaired  an  unoccupied  part  of  the  Hsiang-shan  monastery 
at  Lung-men,^  a  few  miles  south  of  Lo-yang,  and  lived  there, 
calling  himself  the  Hermit  of  Hsiang-shan.  Once  he  invited 
to  dinner  eight  other  elderly  and  retired  officials;  the  occa- 
sion was  recorded  in  a  picture  entitled  "  The  Nine  old  Men 
at  Hsiang-shan."  There  is  no  evidence  that  his  association 
with  them  was  otherwise  than  transient,  though  legend  [see 
"  Memoires  Concernant  les  Chinois  "  and  Giles,  Biographi- 

1  Famous  for  its  rock-sculptures,  carved  in  the  sixth  and  seventh 
centuries. 

[165] 


cal  Dictionary]  has  invested  the  incident  with  an  undue 
importance.  He  amused  himself  at  this  time  by  writing  a 
description  of  his  daily  life  which  would  be  more  interest- 
ing if  it  were  not  so  closely  modelled  on  a  famous  memoir 
by  T'ao  Ch'ien.  In  the  winter  of  839  he  was  attacked  by 
paralysis  and  lost  the  use  of  his  left  leg.  After  many 
months  in  bed  he  was  again  able  to  visit  his  garden,  carried 
by  Ju-man,  a  favourite  monk. 

In  842  Liu  Yii-hsi,  the  last  survivor  of  the  four  friends, 
and  a  constant  visitor  at  the  monastery,  "went  to  wander 
with  Yiian  Chen  in  Hades."     The  monk  Ju-man  also  died. 

The  remaining  years  of  Po's  life  were  spent  in  collecting 
and  arranging  his  Complete  Works.  Copies  were  pre- 
sented to  the  principal  monasteries  [the  "  Public  Libraries  " 
of  the  period]  in  the  towns  with  which  he  had  been  con- 
nected. He  died  in  846,  leaving  instructions  that  his  fu- 
neral should  be  without  pomp  and  that  he  should  be  buried 
not  in  the  family  tomb  at  Hsia-kuei,  but  by  Ju-man 's  side  in 
the  Hsiang-shan  Monastery.  He  desired  that  a  posthumous 
title  should  not  be  awarded. 

The  most  striking  characteristic  of  Po  Chii-i's  poetry  is  its 
verbal  simplicity.  There  is  a  story  that  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  reading  his  poems  to  an  old  peasant  woman  and  altering 
any  expression  which  she  could  not  understand.  The  poems 
of  his  contemporaries  were  mere  elegant  diversions  which 
enabled  the  scholar  to  display  his  erudition,  or  the  literary 
juggler  his  dexterity.  Po  expounded  his  theory  of  poetry 
in  a  letter  to  Yiian  Chen.  Like  Confucius,  he  regarded  art 
solely  as  a  method  of  conveying  instruction.  He  is  not  the 
only  great  artist  who  has  advanced  this  untenable  theory. 
He  accordingly  valued  his  didactic  poems  far  above  his 
other  work;  but  it  is  obvious  that  much  of  his  best  poetry 
[166] 


conveys  no  moral  whatever.  He  admits,  indeed,  that  among 
his  "  miscellaneous  stanzas  "  many  were  inspired  by  some 
momentary  sensation  or  passing  event.  "  A  single  laugh  or 
a  single  sigh  were  rapidly  translated  into  verse." 

The  didactic  poems  or  "  satires  "  belong  to  the  period 
before  his  first  banishment.  "  When  the  tyrants  and  fa- 
vourites heard  my  Songs  of  Ch'in,  they  looked  at  one  an- 
other and  changed  countenance,"  he  boasts.  Satire,  in  the 
European  sense,  implies  wit;  but  Po's  satires  are  as  lacking 
in  true  wit  as  they  are  unquestionably  full  of  true  poetry. 
We  must  regard  them  simply  as  moral  tales  in  verse. 

In  the  conventional  lyric  poetry  of  his  predecessors  he 
finds  little  to  admire.  Among  the  earlier  poems  of  the 
T'ang  dynasty  he  selects  for  praise  the  series  by  Ch'en  Tzii- 
ang,  which  includes  "  Business  Men."  In  Li  Po  and  Tu  Fu 
he  finds  a  deficiency  of  "  feng  "  and  "  ya."  The  two  terms 
are  borrowed  from  the  Preface  to  the  Odes.  "  Feng " 
means  "criticism  of  one's  rules";  "  ya,"  "moral  guidance 
to  the  masses." 

"  The  skill,"  he  says  in  the  same  letter,  "  which  Tu  Fu 
shows  in  threading  on  to  his  lu-shih  a  ramification  of  allu- 
sions ancient  and  modern  could  not  be  surpassed ;  in  this  he 
is  even  superior  to  Li  Po.  But,  if  we  take  the  '  Press-gang  ' 
and  verses  like  that  stanza: 

At  the  palace  doors  the  smell  of  meat  and  wine; 

On  the  road  the  bones  of  one  who  was  frozen  to  death. 

what  a  small  part  of  his  whole  work  it  represents !  " 

Content,  in  short,  he  valued  far  above  form:  and  it  was 
part  of  his  theory,  though  certainly  not  of  his  practice,  that 
this  content  ought  to  be  definitely  moral.  He  aimed  at 
raising  poetry  from  the  triviality  into  which  it  had  sunk  and 
[167] 


restoring  it  to  its  proper  intellectual  level.  It  is  an  irony 
that  he  should  be  chiefly  known  to  posterity,  in  China, 
Japan,  and  the  West,  as  the  author  of  the  "Everlasting 
Wrong."  ^  He  set  little  store  by  the  poem  himself,  and, 
though  a  certain  political  moral  might  be  read  into  it,  its 
appeal  is  clearly  romantic. 

His  other  poem  of  sentiment,  the  "  Lute  Girl,"  ^  accords 
even  less  with  his  stated  principles.  With  these  he  ranks 
his  Lu-shih;  and  it  should  here  be  noted  that  all  the  satires 
and  long  poems  are  in  the  old  style  of  versification,  while 
his  lighter  poems  are  in  the  strict,  modern  form.  With  his 
satires  he  classes  his  "  reflective  "  poems,  such  as  "  Singing 
in  the  Mountains,"  "  On  being  removed  from  Hsiin-yang," 
"  Pruning  Trees,"  etc.     These  are  all  in  the  old  style. 

No  poet  in  the  world  can  ever  have  enjoyed  greater  con- 
temporary popularity  than  Po.  His  poems  were  "  on  the 
mouths  of  kings,  princes,  concubines,  ladies,  plough-boys, 
and  grooms."  They  were  inscribed  "  on  the  walls  of  vil- 
lage-schools, temples,  and  ships-cabins."  *'  A  certain  Cap- 
tain Kao  Hsia-yii  was  courting  a  dancing-girl.  '  You  must 
not  think  I  am  an  ordinary  dancing-girl,'  she  said  to  him, 
'  I  can  recite  Master  Po's  "  Everlasting  Wrong."  '  And  she 
put  up  her  price." 

But  this  popularity  was  confined  to  the  long,  romantic 
poems  and  the  Lu-shih.  "  The  world,"  writes  Po  to  Yiian 
Chen,  "  values  highest  just  those  of  my  poems  which  I  most 
despise.  Of  contemporaries  you  alone  have  understood  my 
satires  and  reflective  poems.  A  hundred,  a  thousand  years 
hence  perhaps  some  one  will  come  who  will  understand  them 
as  you  have  done." 

The  popularity  of  his  lighter  poems  lasted  till  the  Ming 

1  Giles,  "  Chinese  Literature,"  p.  169.  2  /^i^/.,  p.  165. 

[168] 


dynasty,  when  a  wave  of  pedantry  swept  over  China.  At 
that  period  his  poetry  was  considered  vulgar,  because  it 
was  not  erudite;  and  prosaic,  because  it  was  not  rhetorical. 
Although  they  valued  form  far  above  content,  not  even  the 
Ming  critics  can  accuse  him  of  slovenly  writing.  His  versi- 
fication is  admitted  by  them  to  be  "  correct." 

Caring,  indeed,  more  for  matter  than  for  manner,  he  used 
with  facility  and  precision  the  technical  instruments  which 
were  at  his  disposal.  Many  of  the  later  anthologies  omit  his 
name  altogether,  but  he  has  always  had  isolated  admirers. 
Yiian  Mei  imitates  him  constantly,  and  Chao  I  [died  1814] 
writes :  "  Those  who  accuse  him  of  being  vulgar  and  pro- 
saic know  nothing  of  poetry." 

Even  during  his  lifetime  his  reputation  had  reached  Japan, 
and  great  writers  like  Michizane  were  not  ashamed  to  bor- 
row from  him.  He  is  still  held  in  high  repute  there,  is  the 
subject  of  a  No  Play  and  has  even  become  a  kind  of  Shint5 
deity.  It  is  significant  that  the  only  copy  of  his  works  in 
the  British  Museum  is  a  seventeenth-century  Japanese  edi- 
tion. 

It  is  usual  to  close  a  biographical  notice  with  an  attempt 
to  describe  the  "  character  "  of  one's  subject.  But  I  hold 
myself  absolved  from  such  a  task;  for  the  sixty  poems 
whi^  follow  will  enable  the  reader  to  perform  it  for  him- 
self. 


[169] 


AN  EARLY  LEVEE 

Addressed  to  Ch'en,  the  Hermit 

At  Ch'ang-an  —  a  full  foot  of  snow ; 

A  levee  at  dawn  —  to  bestow  congratulations  on  the  Em- 
peror. 
Just  as  I  was  nearing  the  Gate  of  the  Silver  Terrace, 
After  I  had  left  the  suburb  of  Hsin-ch'ang 
On  the  high  causeway  my  horse's  foot  slipped ; 
In  the  middle  of  the  journey  my  lantern  suddenly  went  out. 
Ten  leagues  riding,  always  facing  to  the  North; 
The  cold  wind  almost  blew  off  my  ears. 
I  waited  for  the  bell  outside  the  Five  Gates; 
I  waited  for  the  summons  within  the  Triple  Hall. 
My  hair  and  beard  were  frozen  and  covered  with  icicles; 
My  coat  and  robe  —  chilly  like  water. 
Suddenly  I  thought  of  Hsien-yu  Valley 
And  secretly  envied  Ch'en  Chii-shih, 
In  warm  bed-socks  dozing  beneath  the  rugs 
And  not  getting  up  till  the  sun  has  mounted  the  sky. 


[171] 


BEING  ON  DUTY  ALL  NIGHT  IN  THE  PALACE 
AND  DREAMING  OF  THE  HSIEN-YU  TEMPLE 

At  the  western  window  I  paused  from  writing  rescripts; 
The  pines  and  bamboos  were  all  buried  in  stillness. 
The  moon  rose  and  a  calm  wind  came; 
Suddenly,  it  was  like  an  evening  in  the  hills. 
And  so,  as  I  dozed,  I  dreamed  of  the  South  West 
And  thought  I  was  staying  at  the  Hsien-yu  Temple. 
When  I  woke  and  heard  the  dripping  of  the  Palace  clock 
I  still  thought  it  the  murmur  of  a  mountain  stream. 

1  Where  the  poet  used  to  spend  his  holidays. 


[172] 


PASSING  T'lEN-MEN  STREET  IN  CH'ANG-AN  AND 
SEEING  A  DISTANT  VIEW  OF  CHUNG-NAN  ^ 
MOUNTAIN 

The  snow  has  gone  from  Chung-nan ;  spring  is  almost  come. 
Lovely  in  the  distance  its  blue  colours,  against  the  brown  of 

the  streets. 
A  thousand  coaches,  ten  thousand  horsemen  pass  down  the 

Nine  Roads; 
Turns  his  head  and  looks  at  the  mountains, —  not  one  man! 

iPart    of   the   great    Nan    Shan   range,    fifteen    miles   south   of 
Ch'ang-an. 


[173] 


THE  LETTER 

Preface: — After  I  parted  with  Yiian  Chen,  I  suddenly 
dreamt  one  night  that  I  saw  him.  When  I  awoke,  I 
found  that  a  letter  from  him  had  just  arrived  and, 
enclosed  in  it,  a  poem  on  the  paulovnia  flower. 

We  talked  together  in  the  Yung-shou  Temple; 

We  parted  to  the  north  of  the  Hsin-ch'ang  dyke. 

Going  home  —  I  shed  a  few  tears. 

Grieving  about  things, —  not  sorry  for  you. 

Long,  long  the  road  to  Lan-t'ien; 

You  said  yourself  you  would  not  be  able  to  write. 

Reckoning  up  your  halts  for  eating  and  sleeping  — 

By  this  time  you've  crossed  the  Shang  mountains. 

Last  night  the  clouds  scattered  away; 

A  thousand  leagues,  the  same  moonlight  scene. 

When  dawn  came,  I  dreamt  I  saw  your  face; 

It  must  have  been  that  you  were  thinking  of  me. 

In  my  dream,  I  thought  I  held  your  hand 

And  asked  you  to  tell  me  what  your  thoughts  were. 

And  you  said :     "  I  miss  you  bitterly. 

But  there's  no  one  here  to  send  to  you  with  a  letter." 

When  I  awoke,  before  I  had  time  to  speak, 

A  knocking  on  the  door  sounded  "  Doong,  doong!  " 

They  came  and  told  me  a  messenger  from  Shang-chou 

Had  brought  a  letter, —  a  single  scroll  from  you! 

Up  from  my  pillow  I  suddenly  sprang  out  of  bed, 

And  threw  on  my  clothes,  all  topsy-turvy. 

[174] 


I  undid  the  knot  and  saw  the  letter  within ; 
A  single  sheet  with  thirteen  lines  of  writing. 
At  the  top  it  told  the  sorrows  of  an  exile's  heart; 
At  the  bottom  it  described  the  pains  of  separation. 
The  sorrows  and  pains  took  up  so  much  space 
There  was  no  room  left  to  talk  about  the  weather! 

But  you  said  that  when  you  wrote 
You  were  staying  for  the  night  to  the  east  of  Shang-chou; 
Sitting  alone,  lighted  by  a  solitary  candle 
Lodging  in  the  mountain  hostel  of  Yang-Ch'eng. 

Night  was  late  when  you  finished  writing, 
The  moimtain  moon  was  slanting  towards  the  west. 
What  is  it  lies  aslant  across  the  moon? 
A  single  tree  of  purple  paulovnia  flowers, 
Paulovnia  flowers  just  on  the  point  of  falling 
Are  a  symbol  to  express  "  thinking  of  an  absent  friend." 
Lovingly  —  you  wrote  on  the  back  side. 
To  send  in  the  letter,  your  "  Poem  of  the  Paulovnia  Flower." 
The  Poem  of  the  Paulovnia  Flower  has  eight  rhymes; 
Yet  these  eight  couplets  have  cast  a  spell  on  my  heart. 
They  have  taken  hold  of  this  morning's  thoughts 
And  carried  them  to  yours,  the  night  you  wrote  your  letter. 
The  whole  poem  I  read  three  times; 
Each  verse  ten  times  I  recite. 
So  precious  to  me  are  the  fourscore  words 
That  each  letter  changes  into  a  bar  of  gold! 


[175] 


REJOICING  AT  THE  ARRIVAL  OF 
CH'EN  HSIUNG 

[Circa  A.  D.  812] 

When  the  yellow  bird's  note  was  almost  stopped; 
And  half  formed  the  green  plum's  fruit; 
Sitting  and  grieving  that  spring  things  were  over, 
I  rose  and  entered  the  Eastern  Garden's  gate. 
I  carried  my  cup  and  was  dully  drinking  alone: 
Suddenly  I  heard  a  knocking  sound  at  the  door. 
Dwelling  secluded,  I  was  glad  that  someone  had  come; 
How  much  the  more,  when  I  saw  it  was  Ch'en  Hsiung ! 
At  ease  and  leisure, —  all  day  we  talked ; 
Crowding  and  jostling,  the  feelings  of  many  years. 
How  great  a  thing  is  a  single  cup  of  wine! 
For  it  makes  us  tell  the  story  of  our  whole  lives. 


[176] 


GOLDEN  BELLS 

When  I  was  almost  forty 
I  had  a  daughter  whose  name  was  Golden  Bells. 
Now  it  is  just  a  year  since  she  was  bom; 
She  is  learning  to  sit  and  cannot  yet  talk. 
Ashamed, —  to  find  that  I  have  not  a  sage's  heart: 
I  cannot  resist  vulgar  thoughts  and  feelings. 
Henceforward  I  am  tied  to  things  outside  myself: 
My  only  reward, —  the  pleasure  I  am  getting  now. 
If  I  am  spared  the  grief  of  her  dying  young, 
Then  I  shall  have  the  trouble  of  getting  her  married. 
My  plan  for  retiring  and  going  back  to  the  hills 
Must  now  be  postponed  for  fifteen  years ! 


[177] 


REMEMBERING  GOLDEN  BELLS 

Ruined  and  ill, —  a  man  of  two  score; 

Pretty  and  guileless, —  a  girl  of  three. 
Not  a  boy, —  but  still  better  than  nothing: 
To  soothe  one's  feeling, —  from  time  to  time  a  kiss! 
There  came  a  day, —  they  suddenly  took  her  from  me; 
Her  soul's  shadow  wandered  I  know  not  where. 
And  when  I  remember  how  just  at  the  time  she  died 
She  lisped  strange  sounds,  beginning  to  learn  to  talk, 
Then  I  know  that  the  ties  of  flesh  and  blood 
Only  bind  us  to  a  load  of  grief  and  sorrow. 
At  last,  by  thinking  of  the  time  before  she  was  born, 
By  thought  and  reason  I  drove  the  pain  away. 
Since  my  heart  forgot  her,  many  days  have  passed 
And  three  times  winter  has  changed  to  spring. 
This  morning,  for  a  little,  the  old  grief  came  back, 
Because,  in  the  road,  I  met  her  foster-nurse. 


[178] 


ILLNESS 


Sad,  sad  —  lean  with  long  illness; 
Monotonous,  monotonous  —  days  and  nights  pass. 
The  summer  trees  have  clad  themselves  in  shade; 
The  autumn  "  Ian  "  ^  already  houses  the  dew. 
The  eggs  that  lay  in  the  nest  when  I  took  to  bed 
Have  changed  into  little  birds  and  flown  away. 
The  worm  that  then  lay  hidden  in  its  hole 
Has  hatched  into  a  cricket  sitting  on  the  tree. 
The  Four  Seasons  go  on  for  ever  and  ever: 
In  all  Nature  nothing  stops  to  rest 
Even  for  a  moment.     Only  the  sick  man's  heart 
Deep  down  still  aches  as  of  old ! 

^The  epidendrum. 


[179] 


THE  DRAGON  OF  THE  BLACK  POOL 

A  Satire 

Deep  the  waters  of  the  Black  Pool,  coloured  like  ink; 
They  say  a  Holy  Dragon  lives  there,  whom  men  have  never 

seen. 
Beside  the  Pool  they  have  built  a  shrine;  the  authorities 

have  established  a  ritual; 
A  dragon  by  itself  remains  a  dragon,  but  men  can  make  it  a 

god. 
Prosperity  and   disaster,   rain   and   drought,   plagues  and 

pestilences  — 
By  the  village  people  were  all  regarded  as  the  Sacred 

Dragon's  doing. 
They  all  made  offerings  of  sucking-pig  and  poured  libations 

of  wine; 
The  morning  prayers  and  evening  gifts  depended  on  a 

"  medium's  "  advice. 

When  the  dragon  comes,  ah! 
The  wind  stirs  and  sighs 
Paper  money  thrown,  ah ! 
Silk  umbrellas  waved. 
When  the  dragon  goes,  ah! 
The  wind  also  —  still. 
Incense-fire  dies,  ah ! 
The  cups  and  vessels  are  cold.^ 

1  Parody  of  a  famous  Han  dynasty  hymn, 

[180] 


Meats  lie  stacked  on  the  rocks  of  the  Pool's  shore; 

Wine  flows  on  the  grass  in  front  of  the  shrine. 

I  do  not  know,  of  all  those  offerings,  how  much  the  Dragon 
eats; 

But  the  mice  of  the  woods  and  the  foxes  of  the  hills  are  con- 
tinually drunk  and  sated. 

Why  are  the  foxes  so  lucky? 
What  have  the  sucking-pigs  done, 

That  year  by  year  they  should  be  killed,  merely  to  glut  the 
foxes? 

That  the  foxes  are  robbing  the  Sacred  Dragon  and  eating 
His  sucking-pig. 

Beneath  the  nine-fold  depths  of  His  pool,  does  He  know  or 
not? 


[181] 


THE  GRAIN-TRIBUTE 

Written  circa  812,  showing  one  of  the  poet's  periods  of 
retirement.  When  the  officials  come  to  receive  his  grain* 
tribute,  he  remembers  that  he  is  only  giving  back  what  he 
had  taken  during  his  years  of  office.  Salaries  were  paid 
partly  in  kind. 

There  came  an  officer  knocking  by  night  at  my  door  — 

In  a  loud  voice  demanding  grain-tribute. 

My  house-servants  dared  not  wait  till  the  morning, 

But  brought  candles  and  set  them  on  the  barn-floor. 

Passed  through  the  sieve,  clean -washed  as  pearls, 

A  whole  cart-load,  thirty  bushels  of  grain. 

But  still  they  cry  that  it  is  not  paid  in  full : 

With  whips  and  curses  they  goad  my  servants  and  boys. 

Once,  in  error,  I  entered  public  life; 

I  am  inwardly  ashamed  that  my  talents  were  not  sufficient. 

In  succession  I  occupied  four  official  posts; 

For  doing  nothing, —  ten  years'  salary ! 

Often  have  I  heard  that  saying  of  ancient  men 

That  "  good  and  ill  follow  in  an  endless  chain." 

And  to-day  it  ought  to  set  my  heart  at  rest 

To  return  to  others  the  corn  in  my  great  barn. 


[182] 


THE  PEOPLE  OFTAO-CHOU 

In  the  land  of  Tao-chou 
Many  of  the  people  are  dwarfs; 
The  tallest  of  them  never  grow  to  more  than  three  feet. 
They  were  sold  in  the  market  as  dwarf  slaves  and  yearly  sent 

to  Court; 
Described  as  "  an  offering  of  natural  products  from  the  land 

of  Tao-chou." 
A  strange  "  offering  of  natural  products  " ;  I  never  heard  of 

one  yet 
That  parted  men  from  those  they  loved,  never  to  meet  again ! 
Old  men  —  weeping  for  their  grandsons;  mothers  for  their 

children ! 
One  day  —  Yang  Ch'eng  came  to  govern  the  land ; 
He  refused  to  send  up  dwarf  slaves  in  spite  of  incessant 

mandates. 
He  replied  to  the  Emperor  "  Your  servant  finds  in  the  Six 

Canonical  Books 
'  In  offering  products,  one  must  offer  what  is  there,  and  not 

what  isn't  there ' 
On  the  waters  and  lands  of  Tao-chou,  among  all  the  things 

that  live 
I  only  find  dwarfish  people;  no  dwarfish  slaves" 
The  Emperor's  heart  was  deeply  moved  and  he  sealed  and 

sent  a  scroll 
"The  yearly  tribute  of  dwarfish  slaves  is  henceforth  an- 
nulled." 
[183] 


The  people  of  Tao-chou, 
Old  ones  and  young  ones,  how  great  their  joy! 
Father  with  son  and  brother  with  brother  henceforward  kept 

together ; 
From  that  day  for  ever  more  they  lived  as  free  men. 
The  people  of  Tao-chou 
Still  enjoy  this  gift. 
And  even  now  when  they  speak  of  the  Governor 
Tears  start  to  their  eyes. 
And  lest  their  children  and  their  children's  children  should 

forget  the  Governor's  name, 
When  boys  are  born  the  syllable  "  Yang  "  is  often  used  in 
their  forename. 


[184] 


THE  OLD  HARP 

Of  cord  and  cassia-wood  is  the  harp  compounded: 

Within  it  lie  ancient  melodies. 

Ancient  melodies  —  weak  and  savourless. 

Not  appealing  to  present  men's  taste. 

Light  and  colour  are  faded  from  the  jade  stops: 

Dust  has  covered  the  rose-red  strings. 

Decay  and  ruin  came  to  it  long  ago, 

But  the  sound  that  is  left  is  still  cold  and  clear. 

I  do  not  refuse  to  play  it,  if  you  want  me  to : 

But  even  if  I  play,  people  will  not  listen. 

How  did  it  come  to  be  neglected  so? 

Because  of  the  Ch'iang  flute  and  the  Ch'in  flageolet.^ 

1  Barbarous  modern  instruments. 


[185] 


THE  HARPER  OF  CHAO 

The  singers  have  hushed  their  notes  of  clear  song : 

The  red  sleeves  of  the  dancers  are  motionless. 

Hugging  his  lute,  the  old  harper  of  Chao 

Rocks  and  sways  as  he  touches  the  five  chords. 

The  loud  notes  swell  and  scatter  abroad: 

"  Sa,  sa,"  like  wind  blowing  the  rain. 

The  soft  notes  dying  almost  to  nothing: 

"  Ch'ieh,  ch'ieh,"  like  the  voice  of  ghosts  talking. 

Now  as  glad  as  the  magpie's  lucky  song: 

Again  bitter  as  the  gibbon's  ominous  cry. 

His  ten  fingers  have  no  fixed  note : 

Up  and  down  —  kung,  chih,  and  yii.^ 

And  those  who  sit  and  listen  to  the  tune  he  plays 

Of  soul  and  body  lose  the  mastery. 

And  those  who  pass  that  way  as  he  plays  the  tune, 

Suddenly  stop  and  cannot  raise  their  feet. 

Alas,  alas  that  the  ears  of  common  men 
Should  love  the  modern  and  not  love  the  old. 
Thus  it  is  that  the  harp  in  the  green  window 
Day  by  day  is  covered  deeper  with  dust. 

^  Tonic,    dominant   and   superdominant   of   the    ancient   five-note 
scale. 


[186] 


THE  FLOWER  MARKET 

In  the  Royal  City  spring  is  almost  over: 

Tinkle,  tinkle  —  the  coaches  and  horsemen  pass. 

We  tell  each  other  "  This  is  the  peony  season  ": 

And  follow  with  the  crowd  that  goes  to  the  Flower  Market. 

"  Cheap  and  dear  —  no  uniform  price : 

The  cost  of  the  plant  depends  on  the  number  of  blossoms. 

For  the  fine  flower, —  a  hundred  pieces  of  damask: 

For  the  cheap  flower, —  five  bits  of  silk. 

Above  is  spread  an  awning  to  protect  them: 

Around  is  woven  a  wattle-fence  to  screen  them. 

If  you  sprinkle  water  and  cover  the  roots  with  mud. 

When  they  are  transplanted,  they  will  not  lose  their  beauty." 

Each  household  thoughtlessly  follows  the  custom, 

Man  by  man,  no  one  realizing. 

There  happened  to  be  an  old  farm  labourer 

Who  came  by  chance  that  way. 
He  bowed  his  head  and  sighed  a  deep  sigh : 
But  this  sigh  nobody  understood. 
He  was  thinking,  "  A  cluster  of  deep-red  flowers 
Would  pay  the  taxes  of  ten  poor  houses." 


[187] 


THE  PRISONER 

Written  in  A.  D.  809 

Tartars  led  in  chains, 
Tartars  led  in  chains! 
Their  ears  pierced,  their  faces  bruised  —  they  are  driven  into 

the  land  of  Ch'in. 
The  Son  of  Heaven  took  pity  on  them  and  would  not  have 

them  slain. 
He  sent  them  away  to  the  south-east,  to  the  lands  of  Wu 

and  Yiieh. 
A  petty  ofl&cer  in  a  yellow  coat  took  down  their  names  and 

surnames. 
They  were  led  from  the  city  of  Ch'ang-an  under  escort  of  an 

armed  guard. 
Their  bodies  were  covered  with  the  wounds  of  arrows,  their 

bones  stood  out  from  their  cheeks. 
They  had  grown  so  weak  they  could  only  march  a  single 

stage  a  day. 
In  the  morning  they  must  satisfy  hunger  and  thirst  with 

neither  plate  nor  cup : 
At  night  they  must  lie  in  their  dirt  and  rags  on  beds  that 

stank  with  filth. 
Suddenly  they  came  to  the  Yangtze  River  and  remembered 

the  waters  of  Chiao.^ 
With  lowered  hands  and  levelled  voices  they  sobbed  a  muf- 
fled song. 

1  In  Turkestan. 

[188] 


Then  one  Tartar  lifted  up  his  voice  and  spoke  to  the  other 

Tartars, 
**  Your  sorrows  are  none  at  all  compared  with  my  sorrows." 
Those  that  were  with  him  in  the  same  band  asked  to  hear  his 

tale: 
As  he  tried  to  speak  the  words  were  choked  by  anger. 
He  told  them  "  I  was  born  and  bred  in  the  town  of  Liang- 

yiian.^ 
In  the  frontier  wars  of  Ta-li  ^  I  fell  into  the  Tartars'  hands. 
Since  the  days  the  Tartars  took  me  alive  forty  years  have 

passed : 
They  put  me  into  a  coat  of  skins  tied  with  a  belt  of  rope. 
Only  on  the  first  of  the  first  month  might  I  wear  my  Chinese 

dress. 
As  I  put  on  my  coat  and  arranged  my  cap,  how  fast  the  tears 

flowed ! 
I  made  in  my  heart  a  secret  vow  I  would  find  a  way  home: 
I  hid  my  plan  from  my  Tartar  wife  and  the  children  she  had 

borne  me  in  the  land. 
I  thought  to  myself,  '  It  is  well  for  me  that  my  limbs  are 

still  strong,' 
And  yet,  being  old,  in  my  heart  I  feared  I  should  never  live 

to  return. 
The  Tartar  chieftains  shoot  so  well  that  the  birds  are  afraid 

to  fly: 
From  the  risk  of  their  arrows  I  escaped  alive  and  fled 

swiftly  home. 
Hiding  all  day  and  walking  all  night,  I  crossed  the  Great 

Desert:  ^ 

1  North  of  Ch'ang-an. 

2  The  period  Ta-li,  a.  d.  766-780. 

3  The  Gobi  Desert. 
[189] 


Where  clouds  are  dark  and  the  moon  black  and  the  sands 

eddy  in  the  wind. 
Frightened,  I  sheltered  at  the  Green  Grave,^  where  the  frozen 

grasses  are  few: 
Stealthily  I  crossed  the  Yellow  River,  at  night,  on  the  thin 

ice. 
Suddenly  I  heard  Han  ^  drums  and  the  sound  of  soldiers 

coming: 
I  went  to  meet  them  at  the  road-side,  bowing  to  them  as 

they  came. 
But  the  moving  horsemen  did  not  hear  that  I  spoke  the  Han 

tongue : 
Their  Captain  took  me  for  a  Tartar  bom  and  had  me  bound 

in  chains. 
They  are  sending  me  away  to  the  south-east,  to  a  low  and 

swampy  land: 
No  one  now  will  take  pity  on  me:  resistance  is  all  in  vain. 
Thinking  of  this,  my  voice  chokes  and  I  ask  of  Heaven 

above, 
Was  I  spared  from  death  only  to  spend  the  rest  of  my  years 

in  sorrow? 
My  native  village  of  Liang-yiian  I  shall  not  see  again: 
My  wife  and  children  in  the  Tartars'  land  I  have  fruitlessly 

deserted. 
When  I  fell  among  Tartars  and  was  taken  prisoner,  I  pined 

for  the  land  of  Han: 
Now  that  I  am  back  in  the  land  of  Han,  they  have  turned 

me  into  a  Tartar. 

1  The  grave  of  Chao-chiin,  a  Chinese  girl  who  in  33  b.  c.  was 
"bestowed  upon  the  Khan  of  the  Hsiung-nu  as  a  mark  of  Imperial 
regard"  [Giles].  Hers  was  the  only  grave  in  this  desolate  district 
on  which  grass  would  grow.  ^  I.e.,  Chinese. 

[190] 


Had  I  but  known  what  my  fate  would  be,  I  would  not  have 

started  home! 
For  the  two  lands,  so  wide  apart,  are  alike  in  the  sorrow 

they  bring. 

Tartar  prisoners  in  chains! 
Of  all  the  sorrows  of  all  the  prisoners  mine  is  the  hardest 

to  bear! 
Never  in  the  world  has  so  great  a  wrong  befallen  the  lot  of 

man, — 
A  Han  heart  and  a  Han  tongue  set  in  the  body  of  a  Turk." 


[191] 


THE  CHANCELLOR'S  GRAVEL-DRIVE 
[A  Satire  on  the  Maltreatment  of  Subordinates] 

A  Government-bull  yoked  to  a  Government-cart! 

Moored  by  the  bank  of  Ch'an  River,  a  barge  loaded  with 
graveL 

A  single  load  of  gravel, 

How  many  pounds  it  weighs! 

Carrying  at  dawn,  carrying  at  dusk,  what  is  it  all  for? 

They  are  carrying  it  towards  the  Five  Gates, 

To  the  West  of  the  Main  Road. 

Under  the  shadow  of  green  laurels  they  are  making  a  gravel- 
drive. 

For  yesterday  arrove,  newly  appointed, 

The  Assistant  Chancellor  of  the  Realm, 

And  was  terribly  afraid  that  the  wet  and  mud 

Would  dirty  his  horse's  hoofs. 

The  Chancellor's  horse's  hoofs 

Stepped  on  the  gravel  and  remained  perfectly  clean; 

But  the  bull  employed  in  dragging  the  cart 

Was  almost  sweating  blood. 

The  Assistant  Chancellor's  business 

Is  to  "  save  men,  govern  the  country 

And  harmonize  Yin  and  Yang."  ^ 

Whether  the  bull's  neck  is  sore 

Need  not  trouble  him  at  all. 

1  The  negative  and  positive  principles  in  nature. 

[192] 


THE  MAN  WHO  DREAMED  OF  FAIRIES 

This  poem  is  an  attack  on  the  Emperor  Hsien-tsung,  A.  D. 
806-820,  who  "was  devoted  to  magic/'  A  Taoist  wizard 
told  him  that  herbs  of  longevity  grew  near  the  city  of  T'ai- 
chou.  The  Emperor  at  once  appointed  him  prefect  of  the 
place,  "  pour  lui  permettre  d'herhoriser  plus  a  son  aise  " 
[Wieger,  Textes  III,  p.  1723],  When  the  censors  protested, 
the  Emperor  replied:  **  The  ruin  of  a  single  district  would 
be  a  small  price  to  pay,  if  it  could  procure  longevity  for  the 
Lord  of  Men," 

There  was  once  a  man  who  dreamt  he  went  to  Heaven: 

His  dream-body  soared  aloft  through  space. 

He  rode  on  the  back  of  a  white-plumed  crane, 

And  was  led  on  his  flight  by  two  crimson  banners. 

Whirring  of  wings  and  flapping  of  coat  tails! 

Jade  bells  suddenly  all  a-tinkle! 

Half  way  to  Heaven,  he  looked  down  beneath  him, 

Down  on  the  dark  turmoil  of  the  World. 

Gradually  he  lost  the  place  of  his  native  town; 

Mountains  and  water  —  nothing  else  distinct. 

The  Eastern  Ocean  —  a  single  strip  of  white : 

The  Hills  of  China, —  five  specks  of  green. 

Gliding  past  him  a  host  of  fairies  swept 

In  long  procession  to  the  Palace  of  the  Jade  City. 

How  should  he  guess  that  the  children  of  Tzii-men  ^ 

Bow  to  the  throne  like  courtiers  of  earthly  kings? 

i/.e.,  the  Immortals. 

[193] 


They  take  him  to  the  presence  of  the  Mighty  Jade  Emperor: 

He  bows  his  head  and  proffers  loyal  homage. 

The  Emperor  says:     "  We  see  you  have  fairy  talents : 

Be  of  good  heart  and  do  not  slight  yourself. 

We  shall  send  to  fetch  you  in  fifteen  years 

And  give  you  a  place  in  the  Courtyard  of  Immortality." 

Twice  bowing,  he  acknowledged  the  gracious  words: 

Then  woke  from  sleep,  full  of  wonder  and  joy. 

He  hid  his  secret  and  dared  not  tell  it  abroad: 

But  vowed  a  vow  he  would  live  in  a  cave  of  rock. 

From  love  and  affection  he  severed  kith  and  kin: 

From  his  eating  and  drinking  he  omitted  savoury  and  spice. 

His  morning  meal  was  a  dish  of  coral-dust: 

At  night  he  sipped  an  essence  of  dewy  mists. 

In  the  empty  mountains  he  lived  for  thirty  years 

Daily  watching  for  the  Heavenly  Coach  to  come. 

The  time  of  appointment  was  already  long  past, 

But  of  wings  and  coach-bells  —  still  no  sound. 

His  teeth  and  hair  daily  withered  and  decayed: 

His  ears  and  eyes  gradually  lost  their  keenness. 

One  morning  he  suffered  the  Common  Change 

And  his  body  was  one  with  the  dust  and  dirt  of  the  hill. 

Gods  and  fairies!     If  indeed  such  things  there  be. 

Their  ways  are  beyond  the  striving  of  mortal  men. 

If  you  have  not  on  your  skull  the  Golden  Bump's  protrusion, 

If  your  name  is  absent  from  the  rolls  of  the  Red  Terrace, 

In  vain  you  learn  the  "  Method  of  Avoiding  Food  ": 

For  naught  you  study  the  "  Book  of  Alchemic  Lore." 

Though  you  sweat  and  toil,  what  shall  your  trouble  bring? 

You  will  only  shorten  the  five-score  years  of  your  span. 

Sad,  alas,  the  man  who  dreamt  of  Fairies ! 

For  a  single  dream  spoiled  his  whole  life. 

[194] 


MAGIC 

Boundless,  the  great  sea. 
Straight  down, —  no  bottom:  sideways, —  no  border. 
Of  cloudy  waves  and  misty  billows  down  in  the  uttermost 

depths 
Men  have  fabled,  in  the  midst  there  stand  three  sacred  hills. 
On  the  hills,  thick  growing, —  herbs  that  banish  Death. 
Wings  grow  on  those  who  eat  them  and  they  turn  into 

heavenly  "  hsien." 
The  Lord  of  Ch'in  ^  and  Wu  of  Han  ^  believed  in  these 

stories: 
And  magic-workers  year  by  year  were  sent  to  gather  the 

herbs. 
The  Blessed  Islands,  now  and  of  old,  what  but  an  empty 

tale? 
The  misty  waters  spread  before  them  and  they  knew  not 

where  to  seek. 

Boundless,  the  great  sea. 
Dauntless,  the  mighty  wind. 
Their  eyes  search  but  cannot  see  the  shores  of  the  Blessed 

Islands. 
They  cannot  find  the  Blessed  Isles  and  yet  they  dare  not 

return : 
Youths  and  maidens  that  began  the  quest  grew  grey  on 

board  the  boat. 

2  Wu  Ti,  156-87  B.  c. 
iThe  "First  Emperor,"  259-210  B.C. 
[195] 


They  found  that  the  writings  of  Hsii  Fu  ^  were  all  boasts 

and  lies: 
To  the  Lofty  Principle  and  Great  Unity  in  vain  they  raised 
their  prayers. 

Do  you  not  see 
The  graves  on  the  top  of  Black  Horse  Hill  ^  and  the  tombs 

at  Mo-ling?  « 
What  is  left  but  the  sighing  wind  blowing  in  the  tanglea 
grasses? 

Yes,  and  what  is  more, 
The  Dark  and  Primal  Master  of  Sages  in  his  five  thousand 
words  * 

Never  spoke  of  herbs, 
Never  spoke  of  "  hsien," 
Nor  spoke  of  soaring  in  broad  daylight  up  to  the  blue 
heaven. 

1  =  Hsu  Shih.    Giles,  1276. 

2  The  burial-places  of  these  two  Emperors. 
8  Ibid. 

*  Lao-tzii,  in  the  Tao  Te  Ching. 


[196] 


THE  TWO  RED  TOWERS 

[A  Satire  against  Clericalism] 

The  Two  Red  Towers 

North  and  south  rise  facing  each  other. 

I  beg  to  ask,  to  whom  do  they  belong? 

To  the  two  Princes  of  the  period  Cheng  Yiian.^ 

The  two  Princes  blew  on  their  flutes  and  drew  down  fairies 

from  the  sky, 
Who  carried  them  off  through  the  Five  Clouds,  soaring 

away  to  Heaven. 
Their  halls  and  houses,  that  they  could  take  with  them. 
Were  turned  into  Temples  planted  in  the  Dust  of  the  World. 
In  the  tiring-rooms  and  dancers'  towers  all  is  silent  and 

still; 
Only  the  willows  like  dancers'  arms,  and  the  pond  like  a 

mirror. 
When  the  flowers  are  falling  at  yellow  twilight,  when  things 

are  sad  and  hushed. 
One  does  not  hear  songs  and  flutes,  but  only  chimes  and 

bells. 
The  Imperial  Patent  on  the  Temple  doors  is  written  in 

letters  of  gold; 
For  nuns'  quarters  and  monks'  cells  ample  space  is  allowed. 
For  green  moss  and  bright  moonlight  —  plenty  of  room 

provided; 

1 78S-805. 
[197] 


In  a  hovel  opposite  is  a  sick  man  who  has  hardly  room  to 

lie  down. 
I  remember  once  when  at  P'ing-yang  they  were  building  a 

great  man's  house 
How  it  swallowed  up  the  housing  space  of  thousands  of 

ordinary  men. 
The  Immortals  ^  are  leaving  us,  two  by  two,  and  their  houses 

are  turned  into  Temples; 
I  begin  to  fear  that  the  whole  world  will  become  a  vast 

convent. 

^Hsien  Tsiing's  brothers? 


[198] 


THE  CHARCOAL-SELLER 

[A  Satire  against  "  Kommandatur  "] 

An  old  charcoal-seller 

Cutting  wood  and  burning  charcoal  in  the  forest  of  the 

Southern  Mountain. 
His  face,  stained  with  dust  and  ashes,  has  turned  to  the 

colour  of  smoke. 
The  hair  on  his  temples  is  streaked  with  gray:  his  ten 

fingers  are  black. 
The  money  he  gets  by  selling  charcoal,  how  far  does  it  go? 
It  is  just  enough  to  clothe  his  limbs  and  put  food  in  his 

mouth. 
Although,  alas,  the  coat  on  his  back  is  a  coat  without  lining, 
He  hopes  for  the  coming  of  cold  weather,  to  send  up  the 

price  of  coal! 
Last  night,  outside  the  city, —  a  whole  foot  of  snow; 
At  dawn  he  drives  the  charcoal  wagon  along  the  frozen  ruts. 
Oxen, —  weary;  man, —  hungry:  the  sun,  already  high; 
Outside  the  Gate,  to  the  south  of  the  Market,  at  last  they 

stop  in  the  mud. 
Suddenly,  a  pair  of  prancing  horsemen.     Who  can  it  be 

coming? 
A  public  official  in  a  yellow  coat  and  a  boy  in  a  white  shirt. 
In   their   hands   they   hold    a   written   warrant:    on   their' 

tongues  —  the  words  of  an  order ; 
They  turn  back  the  wagon  and  curse  the  oxen,  leading  them 

off  to  the  north. 
[199] 


A  whole  wagon  of  charcoal, 

More  than  a  thousand  pieces ! 

If  officials  choose  to  take  it  away,  the  woodman  may  not 

complain. 
Half  a  piece  of  red  silk  and  a  single  yard  of  damask, 
The  Courtiers  have  tied  to  the  oxen's  collar,  as  the  price  of 

a  wagon  of  coal ! 


[200] 


THE  POLITICIAN 

I  WAS  going  to  the  City  to  sell  the  herbs  I  had  plucked; 
On  the  way  I  rested  by  some  trees  at  the  Blue  Gate. 
Along  the  road  there  came  a  horseman  riding; 
Whose  face  was  pale  with  a  strange  look  of  dread. 
Friends  and  relations,  waiting  to  say  good-bye, 
Pressed  at  his  side,  but  he  did  not  dare  to  pause. 
I,  in  wonder,  asked  the  people  about  me 
Who  he  was  and  what  had  happened  to  him. 
They  told  me  this  was  a  Privy  Councillor 
Whose  grave  duties  were  like  the  pivot  of  State. 
His  food  allowance  was  ten  thousand  cash; 
Three  times  a  day  the  Emperor  came  to  his  house. 
Yesterday  he  was  called  to  a  meeting  of  Heroes : 
To-day  he  is  banished  to  the  country  of  Yai-chou. 
So  always,  the  Counsellors  of  Kings; 
Favour  and  ruin  changed  between  dawn  and  dusk! 
Green,  green, —  the  grass  of  the  Eastern  Suburb ; 
And  amid  the  grass,  a  road  that  leads  to  the  hills. 
Resting  in  peace  among  the  white  clouds. 
At  last  he  has  made  a  "  coup  "  that  cannot  fail! 


[201] 


THE  OLD  MAN  WITH  THE  BROKEN  ARM 

[A  Satire  on  Militarism] 

At  Hsin-feng  an  old  man  —  four-score  and  eight; 

The  hair  on  his  head  and  the  hair  of  his  eyebrows  —  white 

as  the  new  snow. 
Leaning  on  the  shoulders  of  his  great-grandchildren,  he 

walks  in  front  of  the  Inn; 
With  his  left  arm  he  leans  on  their  shoulders;  his  right  arm 

is  broken. 
I  asked  the  old  man  how  many  years  had  passed  since  he 

broke  his  arm; 
I  also  asked  the  cause  of  the  injury,  how  and  why  it  hap- 
pened ? 
The  old  man  said  he  was  bom  and  reared  in  the  District  of 

Hsin-feng ; 
At  the  time  of  his  birth  —  a  wise  reign ;  no  wars  or  discords. 
"  Often  I  listened  in  the  Pear-Tree  Garden  to  the  sound  of 

flute  and  song; 
Naught  I  knew  of  banner  and  lance;  nothing  of  arrow  or 

bow. 
Then  came  the  wars  of  T'ien-pao  ^  and  the  great  levy  of 

men; 
Of  three  men  in  each  house, —  one  man  was  taken. 
And  those  to  whom  the  lot  fell,  where  were  they  taken  to? 
Five  months'  journey,  a  thousand  miles  —  away  to  Yiin-nan. 
We  heard  it  said  that  in  Yiin-nan  there  flows  the  Lu  River; 

lA.D.  742-755. 
[  202  ] 


As  the  flowers  fall  from  the  pepper-trees,  poisonous  vapours 

rise. 
When  the  great  army  waded  across,  the  water  seethed  like  a 

cauldron ; 
When  barely  ten  had  entered  the  water,  two  or  three  were 

dead. 
To  the  north  of  my  village,  to  the  south  of  my  village  the 

sound  of  weeping  and  wailing. 
Children  parting  from  fathers  and  mothers;  husbands  part- 
ing from  wives. 
Everyone  says  that  in  expeditions  against  the  Min  tribes 
Of  a  million  men  who  are  sent  out,  not  one  returns. 

I,  that  am  old,  was  then  twenty-four ; 
My  name  and  fore-name  were  written  down  in  the  rolls  of 

the  Board  of  War. 
In  the  depth  of  the  night  not  daring  to  let  any  one  know 
I  secretly  took  a  huge  stone  and  dashed  it  against  my  arm. 
For  drawing  the  bow  and  waving  the  banner  now  wholly 

unfit; 
I  knew  henceforward  I  should  not  be  sent  to  fight  in  Yiin- 

nan. 
Bones  broken  and  sinews  wounded  could  not  fail  to  hurt; 
I  was  ready  enough  to  bear  pain,  if  only  I  got  back  home. 
My  arm  —  broken  ever  since;  it  was  sixty  years  ago. 
One  limb,  although  destroyed, —  whole  body  safe ! 
But  even  now  on  winter  nights  when  the  wind  and  rain  blow 
From  evening  on  till  day's  dawn  I  cannot  sleep  for  pain. 
Not  sleeping  for  pain 
Is  a  small  thing  to  bear. 
Compared  with  the  joy  of  being  alive  when  all  the  rest  are 

dead. 
For  otherwise,  years  ago,  at  the  ford  of  Lu  River 
[203] 


My  body  would  have  died  and  my  soul  hovered  by  the  bones 

that  no  one  gathered. 
A  ghost,  I'd  have  wandered  in  Yiin-nan,  always  looking  for 

home. 
Over  the  graves  of  ten  thousand  soldiers,  mournfully  hover- 
ing." 

So  the  old  man  spoke. 
And  I  bid  you  listen  to  his  words 
Have  you  not  heard 
That  the  Prime  Minister  of  K'ai-yiian,^  Sung  K'ai-fu, 
Did  not  reward  frontier  exploits,  lest  a  spirit  of  aggression 
should  prevail? 

And  have  you  not  heard 
That  the  Prime  Minster  of  T'ien-Pao,  Yang  Kuo-chung  ^ 
Desiring  to  win  imperial  favour,  started  a  frontier  war? 
But  long  before  he  could  win  the  war,  people  had  lost  their 

temper; 
Ask  the  man  with  th*»  broken  arm  in  the  village  of  Hsin- 
feng! 

1 713-742. 

2  Cousin  of  the  notorious  mistress  of  Ming-huang,  Yang  Kuei-fei. 


[204] 


KEPT  WAITING  IN  THE  BOAT  AT  CHIU-K'OU 
TEN  DAYS  BY  AN  ADVERSE  WIND 

White  billows  and  huge  waves  block  the  river  crossing; 

Wherever  I  go,  danger  and  difficulty;  whatever  I  do,  failure. 

Just  as  in  my  worldly  career  I  wander  and  lose  the  road, 

So  when  I  come  to  the  river  crossing,  I  am  stopped  by  con- 
trary winds. 

Of  fishes  and  prawns  sodden  in  the  rain  the  smell  fills  my 
nostrils; 

With  the  stings  of  insects  that  come  with  the  fog,  my  whole 
body  is  sore. 

I  am  growing  old,  time  flies,  and  my  short  span  runs  out, 

While  I  sit  in  a  boat  at  Chiu-k'ou,  wasting  ten  days! 


[205] 


ON  BOARD  SHIP:  READING  YUAN  CHEN'S 
POEMS 

I  TAKE  your  poems  in  my  hand  and  read  them  beside  the 

candle; 
The  poems  are  finished:  the  candle  is  low:  dawn  not  yet 

come. 
With  sore  eyes  by  the  guttering  candle  still  I  sit  in  the  dark. 
Listening  to  waves  that,  driven  by  the  wind,  strike  the  prow 

of  the  ship. 


[206] 


ARRIVING  AT  HSUNYANG 

[Two  Poems] 

[1] 
A  BEND  of  the  river  brings  into  view  two  triumphal  arches; 
That  is  the  gate  in  the  western  wall  of  the  suburbs  of  Hsiin- 

yang. 
I  have  still  to  travel  in  my  solitary  boat  three  or  four 

leagues  — 
By  misty  waters  and  rainy  sands,  while  the  yellow  dusk 

thickens. 

[2] 

We  are  almost  come  to  Hsiin-yang:  how  my  thoughts  are 

stirred 
As  we  pass  to  the  south  of  Yii  Liang's  ^  tower  and  the  east 

of  P'en  Port. 
The  forest  trees  are  leafless  and  withered, —  after  the  moun- 
tain rain; 
The  roofs  of  the  houses  are  hidden  low  among  the  river 

mists. 
The  horses,  fed  on  water  grass,  are  too  weak  to  carry  their 

load; 
The  cottage  walls  of  wattle  and  thatch  let  the  wind  blow  on 

one's  bed. 
In  the  distance  I  see  red-wheeled  coaches  driving  from  the 

town-gate; 
They  have  taken  the  trouble,  these  civil  people,  to  meet  their 

new  Prefect! 

1  Died  A.  D.  340.    Giles,  2526. 
[  207  ] 


MADLY  SINGING  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

There  is  no  one  among  men  that  has  not  a  special  failing; 

And  my  failing  consists  in  writing  verses. 

I  have  broken  away  from  the  thousand  ties  of  life: 

But  this  infirmity  still  remains  behind. 

Each  time  that  I  look  at  a  fine  landscape: 

Each  time  that  I  meet  a  loved  friend, 

I  raise  my  voice  and  recite  a  stanza  of  poetry 

And  am  glad  as  though  a  God  had  crossed  my  path. 

Ever  since  the  day  I  was  banished  to  Hsiin-yang 

Half  my  time  I  have  lived  among  the  hills. 

And  often,  when  I  have  finished  a  new  poem, 

Alone  I  climb  the  road  to  the  Eastern  Rock. 

I  lean  my  body  on  the  banks  of  white  stone: 

I  pull  down  with  my  hands  a  green  cassia  branch. 

My  mad  singing  startles  the  valleys  and  hills: 

The  apes  and  birds  all  come  to  peep. 

Fearing  to  become  a  laughing-stock  to  the  world, 

I  choose  a  place  that  is  unfrequented  by  men. 


[208] 


RELEASING  A  MIGRANT  "YEN"  [WILD  GOOSE] 

At  Nine  Rivers,^  in  the  tenth  year ,2  in  winter, —  heavy 

snow; 
The  river-water  covered  with  ice  and  the  forests  broken  with 

their  load.^ 
The  birds  of  the  air,  hungry  and  cold,  went  flying  east  and 

west; 
And  with  them  flew  a  migrant  "yen,"  loudly  clamouring 

for  food. 
Among  the  snow  it  pecked  for  grass;  and  rested  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  ice : 
It  tried  with  its  wings  to  scale  the  sky;  but  its  tired  flight 

was  slow. 
The  boys  of  the  river  spread  a  net  and  caught  the  bird  as  it 

flew; 
They  took  it  in  their  hands  to  the  city-market  and  sold  it 

there  alive. 
I  that  was  once  a  man  of  the  North  am  now  an  exile  here: 
Bird  and  man,  in  their  diff'erent  kind,  are  each  strangers  in 

the  south. 
And  because  the  sight  of  an  exiled  bird  wounded  an  exile's 

heart, 
I  paid  your  ransom  and  set  you  free,  and  you  flew  away  to 

the  clouds. 

^  Kiukiang,  the  poet's  place  of  exile. 
2  A.  D.  815.    His  first  winter  at  Kiukiang. 
s  By  the  weight  of  snow. 
[209] 


Yen,  Yen,  flying  to  the  clouds,  tell  me,  whither  shall 
you  go? 

Of  all  things  I  bid  you,  do  not  fly  to  the  land  of  the  north- 
west; 

In  Huai-hsi  there  are  rebel  bands  ^  that  have  not  been  sub- 
dued; 

And  a  thousand  thousand  armoured  men  have  long  been 
camped  in  war. 

The  official  army  and  the  rebel  army  have  grown  old  in 
their  opposite  trenches; 

The  soldier's  rations  have  grown  so  small,  they'll  be  glad 
of  even  you. 

The  brave  boys,  in  their  hungry  plight,  will  shoot  you  and 
eat  your  flesh; 

They  will  pluck  from  your  body  those  long  feathers  and 
make  them  into  arrow-wings! 

1  The  revolt  of  Wu  Yuan-chi 


[210] 


TO  A  PORTRAIT  PAINTER  WHO  DESIRED  HIM 
TO  SIT 

You,  so  bravely  splashing  reds  and  blues! 
Just  when  /  am  getting  wrinkled  and  old. 
Why  should  you  waste  the  moments  of  inspiration 
Tracing  the  withered  limbs  of  a  sick  man? 
Tall,  tall  is  the  Palace  of  Ch'i-lin;  ^ 
But  my  deeds  have  not  been  frescoed  on  its  walls. 
Minutely  limned  on  a  foot  of  painting  silk  — 
What  can  I  do  with  a  portrait  such  as  that? 

1  One  of  the  "  Record  Offices  "  of  the  T'ang  dynasty,  where  meri- 
torious deeds  were  illustrated  on  the  walls. 


[211] 


SEPARATION 

Yesterday  I  heard  that  such-a-one  was  gone; 

This  morning  they  tell  me  that  so-and-so  is  dead. 

Of  friends  and  acquaintances  more  than  two-thirds 

Have  suffered  change  and  passed  to  the  Land  of  Ghosts. 

Those  that  are  gone  I  shall  not  see  again ; 

They,  alas,  are  for  ever  finished  and  done. 

Those  that  are  left, —  where  are  they  now? 

They  are  all  scattered, —  a  thousand  miles  away. 

Those  I  have  known  and  loved  through  all  my  life, 

On  the  fingers  of  my  hand  —  how  many  do  I  count? 

Only  the  prefects  of  T'ung,  Kuo  and  Li 

And  Feng  Province  —  just  those  four.^ 

Longing  for  each  other  we  are  all  grown  gray; 

Through  the  Fleeting  World  rolled  like  a  wave  in  the 

stream. 
Alas  that  the  feasts  and  frolics  of  old  days 
Have  withered  and  vanished,  bringing  us  to  this! 
When  shall  we  meet  and  drink  a  cup  of  wine 
And  laughing  gaze  into  each  other's  eyes? 

1  Yuan  Chen  [d.  831],  Ts'ui  Hsuan-liang  [d.  833],  Liu  Yii-hsi  [d. 
842],  and  Li  Chien  [d.  821]. 


[212] 


HAVING  CLIMBED  TO  THE  TOPMOST  PEAK  OF 
THE  INCENSE-BURNER  MOUNTAIN 

Up  and  up,  the  Incense-burner  Peak! 

In  my  heart  is  stored  what  my  eyes  and  ears  perceived. 

All  the  year  —  detained  by  official  business; 

To-day  at  last  I  got  a  chance  to  go. 

Grasping  the  creepers,  I  clung  to  dangerous  rocks; 

My  hands  and  feet  —  weary  with  groping  for  hold. 

There  came  with  me  three  or  four  friends. 

But  two  friends  dared  not  go  further. 

At  last  we  reached  the  topmost  crest  of  the  Peak; 

My  eyes  were  blinded,  my  soul  rocked  and  reeled. 

The  chasm  beneath  me  —  ten  thousand  feet; 

The  ground  I  stood  on,  only  a  foot  wide. 

If  you  have  not  exhausted  the  scope  of  seeing  and  hearing, 

How  can  you  realize  the  wideness  of  the  world? 

The  waters  of  the  River  looked  narrow  as  a  ribbon, 

P'en  Castle  smaller  than  a  man's  fist. 

How  it  clings,  the  dust  of  the  world's  halter! 

It  chokes  my  limbs:  I  cannot  shake  it  away. 

Thinking  of  retirement,^  I  heaved  an  envious  sigh, 

Then,  with  lowered  head,  came  back  to  the  Ants'  Nest. 

i/.e.,  retirement  from  office. 


[213] 


EATING  BAMBOO-SHOOTS 

My  new  province  is  a  land  of  bamboo-groves: 

Their  shoots  in  spring  fill  the  valleys  and  hills. 

The  mountain  woodman  cuts  an  armful  of  them 

And  brings  them  down  to  sell  at  the  early  market. 

Things  are  cheap  in  proportion  as  they  are  common; 

For  two  farthings,  I  buy  a  whole  bundle. 

I  put  the  shoots  in  a  great  earthen  pot 

And  heat  them  up  along  with  boiling  rice. 

The  purple  nodules  broken, —  like  an  old  brocade; 

The  white  skin  opened, —  like  new  pearls. 

Now  every  day  I  eat  them  recklessly; 

For  a  long  time  I  have  not  touched  meat. 

All  the  time  I  was  living  at  Lo-yang 

They  could  not  give  me  enough  to  suit  my  taste, 

Now  I  can  have  as  many  shoots  as  I  please ; 

Foi  each  breath  of  the  south-wind  makes  a  new  bamboo ! 


[214] 


THE  RED  COCKATOO 


[215] 


Sent  as  a  present  from  Annam  — 
A  red  cockatoo. 

Coloured  like  the  peach-tree  blossom, 
Speaking  with  the  speech  of  men. 
And  they  did  to  it  what  is  always  done 
To  the  learned  and  eloquent. 
They  took  a  cage  with  stout  bars 
And  shut  it  up  inside. 


AFTER  LUNCH 

After  lunch  —  one  short  nap : 

On  waking  up  —  two  cups  of  tea. 

Raising  my  head,  I  see  the  sun's  light 

Once  again  slanting  to  the  south-west. 

Those  who  are  happy  regret  the  shortness  of  the  day; 

Those  who  are  sad  tire  of  the  year's  sloth. 

But  those  whose  hearts  are  devoid  of  joy  or  sadness 

Just  go  on  living,  regardless  of  "  short  "  or  "  long." 


[216] 


ALARM  AT  FIRST  ENTERING  THE  YANGTZE 
GORGES 

Written  in  818 ^  when  he  was  being  towed  up  the  rapids  to 
Chung'chou. 

Above,  a  mountain  ten  thousand  feet  high: 

Below,  a  river  a  thousand  fathoms  deep. 

A  strip  of  green,  walled  by  cliffs  of  stone: 

Wide  enough  for  the  passage  of  a  single  reed.^ 

At  Chii-t'ang  a  straight  cleft  yawns: 

At  Yen-yii  islands  block  the  stream. 

Long  before  night  the  walls  are  black  with  dusk; 

Without  wind  white  waves  rise. 

The  big  rocks  are  like  a  flat  sword: 

The  little  rocks  resemble  ivory  tusks. 


We  are  stuck  fast  and  cannot  move  a  step. 

How  much  the  less,  three  hundred  miles?  ^ 

Frail  and  slender,  the  twisted-bamboo  rope: 

Weak,  the  dangerous  hold  of  the  towers'  feet. 

A  single  slip  —  the  whole  convoy  lost: 

And  my  life  hangs  on  this  thread! 

I  have  heard  a  saying  "  He  that  has  an  upright  heart 

Shall  walk  scathless  through  the  lands  of  Man  and  Mo." 

1  See  Odes,  v.  7. 

2  The  distance  to  Chung-chou. 

3  Dangerous  savages. 

[217] 


How  can  I  believe  that  since  the  world  began 

In  every  shipwreck  none  have  drowned  but  rogues? 

And  how  can  I,  born  in  evil  days  ^ 

And  fresh  from  failure,^  ask  a  kindness  of  Fate? 

Often  I  fear  that  these  un-talented  limbs 

Will  be  laid  at  last  in  an  un-named  grave! 

1  Of  civil  war. 

2  Alluding  to  his  renewed  banishment. 


[218] 


ON  BEING  REMOVED  FROM  HSUN-YANG  AND 
SENT  TO  CHUNGCHOU 

A  remote  place  in  the  mountains  of  Pa  [Ssech^uan] 

Before  this,  when  I  was  stationed  at  Hsiin-yang, 

Already  I  regretted  the  fewness  of  friends  and  guests. 

Suddenly,  suddenly, —  bearing  a  stricken  heart 

I  left  the  gates,  with  nothing  to  comfort  me. 

Henceforward, —  relegated  to  deep  seclusion 

In  a  bottomless  gorge,  flanked  by  precipitous  mountains, 

Five  months  on  end  the  passage  of  boats  is  stopped 

By  the  piled  billows  that  toss  and  leap  like  colts. 

The  inhabitants  of  Pa  resemble  wild  apes; 

Fierce  and  lusty,  they  fill  the  mountains  and  prairies. 

Among  such  as  these  I  cannot  hope  for  friends 

And  am  pleased  with  anyone  who  is  even  remotely  human! 


[219] 


PLANTING  FLOWERS  ON  THE  EASTERN 
EMBANKMENT 

Written  when  Governor  of  Chung-Chou 

I  TOOK  money  and  bought  flowering  trees 

And  planted  them  out  on  the  bank  to  the  east  of  the  Keep. 

I  simply  bought  whatever  had  most  blooms, 

Not  caring  whether  peach,  apricot,  or  plum. 

A  hundred  fruits,  all  mixed  up  together; 

A  thousand  branches,  flowering  in  due  rotation. 

Each  has  its  season  coming  early  or  late; 

But  to  all  alike  the  fertile  soil  is  kind. 

The  red  flowers  hang  like  a  heavy  mist; 

The  white  flowers  gleam  like  a  fall  of  snow. 

The  wandering  bees  cannot  bear  to  leave  them; 

The  sweet  birds  also  come  there  to  roost. 

In  front  there  flows  an  ever-running  stream; 

Beneath  there  is  built  a  little  flat  terrace. 

Sometimes  I  sweep  the  flagstones  of  the  terrace; 

Sometimes,  in  the  wind,  I  raise  my  cup  and  drink. 

The  flower-branches  screen  my  head  from  the  sun; 

The  flower-buds  fall  down  into  my  lap. 

Alone  drinking,  alone  singing  my  songs 

I  do  not  notice  that  the  moon  is  level  with  the  steps. 

The  people  of  Pa  do  not  care  for  flowers; 

All  the  spring  no  one  has  come  to  look. 

But  their  Governor  General,  alone  with  his  cup  of  wine 

Sits  till  evening  and  will  not  move  from  the  place! 

[220] 


CHILDREN 

Written  circa  820 

My  niece,  who  is  six  years  old,  is  called  "  Miss  Tortoise 

My  daughter  of  three, —  little  "  Summer  Dress." 

One  is  beginning  to  learn  to  joke  and  talk; 

The  other  can  already  recite  poems  and  songs. 

At  morning  they  play  clinging  about  my  feet; 

At  night  they  sleep  pillowed  against  my  dress. 

Why,  children,  did  you  reach  the  world  so  late, 

Coming  to  me  just  when  my  years  are  spent? 

Young  things  draw  our  feelings  to  them; 

Old  people  easily  give  their  hearts. 

The  sweetest  vintage  at  last  turns  sour; 

The  full  moon  in  the  end  begins  to  wane. 

And  so  with  men  the  bonds  of  love  and  afifection 

Soon  may  change  to  a  load  of  sorrow  and  care. 

But  all  the  world  is  bound  by  love's  ties; 

Why  did  I  think  that  I  alone  should  escape? 


[221] 


PRUNING  TREES 

Trees  growing  —  right  in  front  of  my  window; 

The  trees  are  high  and  the  leaves  grow  thick. 

Sad  alas!  the  distant  mountain  view 

Obscured  by  this,  dimly  shows  between. 

One  morning  I  took  knife  and  axe; 

With  my  own  hand  I  lopped  the  branches  off. 

Ten  thousand  leaves  fall  about  my  head; 

A  thousand  hills  come  before  my  eyes. 

Suddenly,  as  when  clouds  or  mists  break 

And  straight  through,  the  blue  sky  appears; 

Again,  like  the  face  of  a  friend  one  has  loved 

Seen  at  last  after  an  age  of  parting. 

First  there  came  a  gentle  wind  blowing; 

One  by  one  the  birds  flew  back  to  the  tree. 

To  ease  my  mind  I  gazed  to  the  South  East; 

As  my  eyes  wandered,  my  thoughts  went  far  away. 

Of  men  there  is  none  that  has  not  some  preference ; 

Of  things  there  is  none  but  mixes  good  with  ill. 

It  was  not  that  I  did  not  love  the  tender  branches; 

But  better  still, —  to  see  the  green  hills! 


[222] 


BEING  VISITED  BY  A  FRIEND  DURING  ILLNESS 

I  HAVE  been  ill  so  long  that  I  do  not  count  the  days; 
At  the  southern  window,  evening  —  and  again  evening. 
Sadly  chirping  in  the  grasses  under  my  eaves 
The  winter  sparrows  morning  and  evening  sing. 
By  an  effort  I  rise  and  lean  heavily  on  my  bed; 
Tottering  I  step  towards  the  door  of  the  courtyard. 
By  chance  I  meet  a  friend  who  is  coming  to  see  me; 
Just  as  if  I  had  gone  specially  to  meet  him. 
They  took  my  couch  and  placed  it  in  the  setting  sun; 
They  spread  my  rug  and  I  leaned  on  the  balcony-pillar. 
Tranquil  talk  was  better  than  any  medicine; 
Gradually  the  feelings  came  back  to  my  numbed  heart. 


[223] 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  HANGCHOW:  ANCHORED 
ON  THE  RIVER  AT  NIGHT 

Little  sleeping  and  much  grieving, —  the  traveller 
Rises  at  midnight  and  looks  back  towards  home. 
The  sands  are  bright  with  moonlight  that  joins  the  shores; 
The  sail  is  white  with  dew  that  has  covered  the  boat. 
Nearing  the  sea,  the  river  grows  broader  and  broader: 
Approaching  autumn,  the  nights  longer  and  longer. 
Thirty  times  we  have  slept  amid  mists  and  waves, 
And  still  we  have  not  reached  Hang-chow! 


[224] 


STOPPING  THE  NIGHT  AT  JUNG-YANG 

I  GREW  up  at  Jung-yang; 

I  was  still  young  when  I  left. 
On  and  on, —  forty  years  passed 
Till  again  I  stayed  for  the  night  at  Jung-yang. 
When  I  went  away,  I  was  only  eleven  or  twelve; 
This  year  I  am  turned  fifty-six. 

Yet  thinking  hack  to  the  times  of  my  childish  games, 
Whole  and  undimmed,  still  they  rise  before  me. 
The  old  houses  have  all  disappeared; 
Down  in  the  village  none  of  my  people  are  left. 
It  is  not  only  that  streets  and  buildings  have  changed; 
But  steep  is  level  and  level  changed  to  steep! 
Alone  unchanged,  the  waters  of  Ch'iu  and  Yu 
Passionless, —  flow  in  their  old  course. 


[225] 


THE  SILVER  SPOON 

While  on  the  road  to  his  new  province^  Hang-chow,  in 
822,  he  sends  a  silver  spoon  to  his  niece  A-kuei,  whom  he 
had  been  obliged  to  leave  behind  with  her  nurse,  old  Mrs. 
Ts'ao. 

To  distant  service  my  heart  is  well  accustomed; 
When  I  left  home,  it  wasn't  that  which  was  difficult 
But  because  I  had  to  leave  Miss  Kuei  at  home  — 
For  this  it  was  that  tears  filled  my  eyes. 
Little  girls  ought  to  be  daintily  fed: 
Mrs.  Ts'ao,  please  see  to  this! 
That's  why  I've  packed  and  sent  a  silver  spoon; 
You  will  think  of  me  and  eat  up  your  food  nicely! 


[226] 


THE  HAT  GIVEN  TO  THE  POET  BY  LI  CHIEN 

Long  ago  a  white-haired  gentleman 

You  made  the  present  of  a  black  gauze  hat. 

The  gauze  hat  still  sits  on  my  head; 

But  you  already  are  gone  to  the  Nether  Springs. 

The  thing  is  old,  but  still  fit  to  wear; 

The  man  is  gone  and  will  never  be  seen  again. 

Out  on  the  hill  the  moon  is  shining  to-night 

And  the  trees  on  your  tomb  are  swayed  by  the  autumn  wind. 


[227] 


THE  BIG  RUG 

That  so  many  of  the  poor  should  suffer  from  cold  what 

can  we  do  to  prevent? 
To  bring  warmth  to  a  single  body  is  not  much  use. 
I  wish  I  had  a  big  rug  ten  thousand  feet  long, 
Which  at  one  time  could  cover  up  every  inch  of  the  City. 


[228] 


AFTER  GETTING  DRUNK,  BECOMING  SOBER  IN 
THE  NIGHT 

Our  party  scattered  at  yellow  dusk  and  I  came  home  to  bed; 
I  woke  at  midnight  and  went  for  a  walk,  leaning  heavily  on 

a  friend. 
As  I  lay  on  my  pillow  my  vinous  complexion,  soothed  by 

sleep,  grew  sober; 
In  front  of  the  tower  the  ocean  moon,  accompanying  the 

tide,  had  risen. 
The  swallows,  about  to  return  to  the  beams,  went  back  to 

roost  again; 
The  candle  at  my  window,  just  going  out,  suddenly  revived 

its  light. 
All    the    time    till    dawn    came,    still    my   thoughts    were 

muddled ; 
And  in  my  ears  something  sounded  like  the  music  of  flutes 

and  strings. 


[229] 


REALIZING  THE  FUTILITY  OF  LIFE 

Written  on  the  wall  of  a  priest's  cell,  circa  828 

Ever  since  the  time  when  I  was  a  lusty  boy 

Down  till  now  when  I  am  ill  and  old. 

The  things  I  have  cared  for  have  been  different  at  different 

times, 
But  my  being  busy,  that  has  never  changed. 
Then  on  the  shore, —  building  sand-pagodas; 
Now,  at  Court,  covered  with  tinkling  jade. 
This  and  that, —  equally  childish  games, 
Things  whose  substance  passes  in  a  moment  of  time! 
While  the  hands  are  busy,  the  heart  cannot  understand; 
When  there  are  no  Scriptures,  then  Doctrine  is  sound. ^ 
Even  should  one  zealously  strive  to  learn  the  Way, 
That  very  striving  will  make  one's  error  more. 

1  This  is  the  teaching  of  the  Dhyana  Sect. 


[230] 


RISING  LATE  AND  PLAYING  WITH  A-TS'UI, 
AGED  TWO 

Written  in  831 

All  the  morning  I  have  lain  perversely  in  bed; 

Now  at  dusk  I  rise  with  many  yawns. 

My  warm  stove  is  quick  to  get  ablaze; 

At  the  cold  mirror  I  am  slow  in  doing  my  hair. 

With  melted  snow  I  boil  fragrant  tea; 

Seasoned  with  curds  I  cook  a  milk-pudding. 

At  my  sloth  and  greed  there  is  no  one  but  me  to  laugh; 

My  cheerful  vigour  none  but  myself  knows. 

The  taste  of  my  wine  is  mild  and  works  no  poison; 

The  notes  of  my  harp  are  soft  and  bring  no  sadness. 

To  the  Three  Joys  in  the  book  of  Mencius  ^ 

I  have  added  the  fourth  of  playing  with  my  baby-boy. 

1 "  Mencius,"  bk.  vii,  pt.  i,  20. 


[231] 


ON  A  BOX  CONTAINING  HIS  OWN  WORKS 

I  BREAK  up  cypress  and  make  a  book -box; 

The  box  well-made, —  and  the  cypress-wood  tough. 

In  it  shall  be  kept  what  author's  works? 

The  inscription  says  PO  LO-TTEN. 

All  my  life  has  been  spent  in  writing  books, 

From  when  I  was  young  till  now  that  I  am  old. 

First  and  last, —  seventy  whole  volumes; 

Big  and  little, —  three  thousand  themes.^ 

Well  I  know  in  the  end  they'll  be  scattered  and  lost; 

But  I  cannot  bear  to  see  them  thrown  away. 

With  my  own  hand  I  open  and  shut  the  locks, 

And  put  it  carefully  in  front  of  the  book-curtain. 

I  am  like  Teng  Pai-tao;  ^ 

But  to-day  there  is  not  any  Wang  Ts'an.^ 

All  I  can  do  is  to  divide  them  among  my  daughters 

To  be  left  by  them  to  give  to  my  grandchildren. 

1 1.e.y  separate  poems,  essays,  etc. 

2  Who  was  obliged  to  abandon  his  only  child  on  the  roadside. 

*  Who  rescued  a  foundling. 


[232] 


ON  BEING  SIXTY 

Addressed  to  Liu  Meng-te,  who  had  asked  for  a  poem. 
He  was  the  same  age  as  Po  Chii-i. 

Between  thirty  and  forty,  one  is  distracted  by  the  Five 

Lusts; 
Between  seventy  and  eighty,  one  is  a  prey  to  a  hundred 

diseases. 
But  from  fifty  to  sixty  one  is  free  from  all  ills; 
Calm  and  still  —  the  heart  enjoys  rest. 
I  have  put  behind  me  Love  and  Greed;  I  have  done  with 

Profit  and  Fame; 
I  am  still  short  of  illness  and  decay  and  far  from  decrepit 

age. 
Strength  of  limb  I  still  possess  to  seek  the  rivers  and  hills; 
Still  my  heart  has  spirit  enough  to  listen  to  flutes  and 

strings. 
At  leisure  I  open  new  wine  and  taste  several  cups; 
Drunken  I  recall  old  poems  and  sing  a  whole  volume. 
Meng-te  has  asked  for  a  poem  and  herewith  I  exhort  him 
Not   to   complain   of   three-score,   "  the   time    of   obedient 

ears."  ^ 

1  Confucius  said  that  it  was  not  till  sixty  that  "  his  cars  obeyed 
him."    This  age  was  therefore  called  "the  time  of  obedient  ears." 


[233] 


CLIMBING  THE  TERRACE  OF  KUANYIN  AND 
LOOKING  AT  THE  CITY 

Hundreds  of  houses,  thousands  of  houses, —  like  a  chess- 
board. 

The  twelve  streets  like  a  field  planted  with  rows  of  cab- 
bage. 

In  the  distance  perceptible,  dim,  dim  —  the  fire  of  approach- 
ing dawn; 

And  a  single  row  of  stars  lying  to  the  west  of  the  Fivie 
Gates. 


[234] 


CLIMBING  THE  LING  YING  TERRACE  AND 
LOOKING  NORTH 

Mounting  on  high   I   begm   to   realize  the   smallness  of 

Man's  Domain; 
Gazing  into  distance  I  begin  to  know  the  vanity  of  the 

Carnal  World. 
I  turn  my  head  and  hurry  home  —  back  to  the  Court  and 

Market, 
A  single  grain  of  rice  falling  —  into  the  Great  Barn. 


[235] 


GOING  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS  WITH  A  LITTLE 
DANCING  GIRL,  AGED  FIFTEEN 

Written  when  the  poet  was  about  sixty-five 

Two  top-knots  not  yet  plaited  into  one. 

Of  thirty  years  —  just  beyond  half. 

You  who  are  really  a  lady  of  silks  and  satins 

Are  now  become  my  hill  and  stream  companion! 

At  the  spring  fountains  together  we  splash  and  play: 

On  the  lovely  trees  together  we  climb  and  sport. 

Her  cheeks  grow  rosy,  as  she  quickens  her  sleeve-dancing: 

Her  brows  grow  sad,  as  she  slows  her  song's  tune. 

Don't  go  singing  the  song  of  the  Willow  Branches,^ 

When  there's  no  one  here  with  a  heart  for  you  to  break! 

lA   plaintive  love-song,  to  which  Po   Chii-i  had  himself  written 
words. 


[236] 


DREAMING  OF  YUAN  CHEN 

This  was  written  eight  years  after  Yiian  Chen's  death, 
when  Po-Chii-i  was  sixty-eight. 

At  night  you  came  and  took  my  hand  and  we  wandered 

together  in  my  dream; 
When  I  woke  in  the  morning  there  was  no  one  to  stop  the 

tears  that  fell  on  my  handkerchief. 
On  the  banks  of  the  Ch'ang  my  aged  body  three  times  ^  has 

passed  through  sickness; 
At  Hsien-yang  ^  to  the  grasses  on  your  grave  eight  times  has 

autumn  come. 
You  lie  buried  beneath  the  springs  and  your  bones  are 

mingled  with  the  clay. 
I  —  lodging  in  the  world  of  men ;  my  hair  white  as  snow. 
A-wei  and  Han-lang  *  both  followed  in  their  turn ; 
Among  the  shadows  of  the  Terrace  of  Night  did  you  know 

them  or  not? 

^  Since  you  died. 

2  Near  Ch'ang-an,  modem  Si-ngan-fu. 

3  Affectionate  names  of  Li  Chien  and  Ts'ul  Hsuan-liang. 


[237] 


A  DREAM  OF  MOUNTAINEERING 

Written  when  he  was  over  seventy 

At  night,  in  my  dream,  I  stoutly  climbed  a  mountain, 

Going  out  alone  with  my  staff  of  holly-wood. 

A  thousand  crags,  a  hundred  hundred  valleys  — 

In  my  dream-journey  none  were  unexplored 

And  all  the  while  my  feet  never  grew  tired 

And  my  step  was  as  strong  as  in  my  young  days. 

Can  it  be  that  when  the  mind  travels  backward 

The  body  also  returns  to  its  old  state? 

And  can  it  be,  as  between  body  and  soul. 

That  the  body  may  languish,  while  the  soul  is  still  strong? 

Soul  and  body  —  both  are  vanities : 

Dreaming  and  waking  —  both  alike  unreal. 

In  the  day  my  feet  are  palsied  and  tottering; 

In  the  night  my  steps  go  striding  over  the  hills. 

As  day  and  night  are  divided  in  equal  parts  — 

Between  the  two,  I  get  as  much  as  I  lose. 


[238] 


EASE 

Congratulating  himself  on  the  comforts  of  his  life  after 
his  retirement  from  office.     Written  circa  844, 

Lined  coat,  warm  cap  and  easy  felt  slippers, 

In  the  little  tower,  at  the  low  window,  sitting  over  the  sunken 

brazier. 
Body  at  rest,  heart  at  peace;  no  need  to  rise  early. 
I  wonder  if  the  courtiers  at  the  Western  Capital  know  of 

these  things,  or  not? 


[239] 


ON  HEARING  SOMEONE  SING  A  POEM  BY 
YUAN  CHEN 

Written  long  after  Chen's  death 

No  new  poems  his  brush  will  trace: 

Even  his  fame  is  dead. 
His  old  poems  are  deep  in  dust 

At  the  bottom  of  boxes  and  cupboards. 
Once  lately,  when  someone  was  singing, 

Suddenly  I  heard  a  verse  — 
Before  I  had  time  to  catch  the  words 

A  pain  had  stabbed  my  heart. 


[240] 


THE  PHILOSOPHERS 

Lao-tzu 

"  Those  who  speak  know  nothing; 
Those  who  know  are  silent." 
These  words,  as  I  am  told, 
Were  spoken  by  Lao-tzii. 
If  we  are  to  believe  that  Lao-tzii 

Was  himself  one  who  knew. 
How  comes  it  that  he  wrote  a  book 

Of  five  thousand  words? 

Chuang-tzu,  the  Monist 

Chuang-tzu  levels  all  things 

And  reduces  them  to  the  same  Monad. 

But  /  say  that  even  in  their  sameness 

Difference  may  be  found. 

Although  in  following  the  promptings  of  their  nature 

They  display  the  same  tendency, 

Yet  it  seems  to  me  that  in  some  ways 

A  phoenix  is  superior  to  a  reptile! 


[241] 


TAOISM  AND  BUDDHISM 

Written  shortly  before  his  death 

A  TRAVELLER  came  from  across  the  seas 

Telling  of  strange  sights. 

"  In  a  deep  fold  of  the  sea-hills 

I  saw  a  terrace  and  tower. 

In  the  midst  there  stood  a  Fairy  Temple 

With  one  niche  empty. 

They  all  told  me  this  was  waiting 

For  Lo-t'ien  to  come." 

Traveller,  I  have  studied  the  Empty  Gate;  ^ 

I  am  no  disciple  of  Fairies. 

The  story  you  have  just  told 

Is  nothing  but  an  idle  tale. 

The  hills  of  ocean  shall  never  be 

Lo-t'ien's  home. 

When  I  leave  the  earth  it  will  be  to  go 

To  the  Heaven  of  Bliss  Fulfilled.^ 

1  Buddhism.     The   poem   is   quite   frivolous,   as   is   shown   by  his 
claim  to  Bodhisattva-hood. 

2  The  "  tushita  "  Heaven,  where  Bodhisattvaa  wait  till  it  is  time  for 
them  to  appear  on  earth  as  Buddhas. 


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LAST  POEM 

They  have  put  my  bed  beside  the  impainted  screen; 
They  have  shifted  my  stove  in  front  of  the  blue  curtain. 
I  listen  to  my  grandchildren,  reading  me  a  book; 
I  watch  the  servants,  heating  up  my  soup. 
With  rapid  pencil  I  answer  the  poems  of  friends; 
I  feel  in  my  pockets  and  pull  out  medicine-money. 
When  this  superintendence  of  trifling  affairs  is  done, 
I  lie  back  on  my  pillows  and  sleep  with  my  face  to  the 
South. 


THE   END 


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